Hogwarts Rising
by nicuvino
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester get a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry asking them to become the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professors, and they are introduced to a whole new world of the supernatural. But how can Muggles possibly teach at a wizarding school, especially with OWLs coming and Voldemort rising? Harry's Fifth Year & Season 4 Supernatural. Read!
1. Owls, Letters, and Hogwarts

_A/N: Yes, another story. I've actually had this one sitting around in my computer for about a year and recently saw it sitting around in my computer looking up at me and asking me to love it (I've got such a clear vision of that in my head that it's ridiculous :D) Well, any who-sit, I've got so much of it written out already that I should be posting for it every week. Yes, I will also be juggling this with Carry That Weight, but I'm going to be putting Hold Your Hand on hold for a little while (it's kinda a writer's block thing I've got going on with that one). So, I hope you like this!_

_Disclaimer: No, I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural or anything! I'm a bum! I own nothing! You're reading the works of a bum!_

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><p>(The third of August)<p>

So after one of those impossibly long days, 99% of people want nothing more than a warm bed to sleep in and a good twelve to fifteen hours of non-stop sleep—the Winchesters were definitely part of that group. Of course, they still _were_ Winchesters and that kind of comfort was illegal as far as the laws of the universe were concerned.

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

The two Winchester brothers were lightly dozing in the front seat of the Impala, which had been parked near the edge of a cliff by, what seemed to be, the Pacific Ocean. It had been about two or three days since they had gotten any sleep and they'd already reached and past the point of drop-dead exhaustion.

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

Their sleep went basically undisturbed by the persistent tapping noise besides a few grunts from Dean's part and twitches from Sam. The noises were beginning to blend themselves into the fuzzy, unstable, dreamy thoughts playing in their heads.

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

It wasn't the tapping that had managed to finally wake up Sam but one of Dean's unnatural grunt-snore things. If any other Hunter had heard one of them, they would've already been locked, loaded, and shooting hours ago.

_Tap! Tap! Tap! _

For the first time, Sam noticed the noise and sat up from where he had been leaning on the door.

_ Tap! Tap! Tap! _

He glanced out the windows but saw nothing. That was never a good sign.

"Dean," Sam said huskily, nudging his brother. Dean's response consisted of a few grunts followed by an overly dramatic snore that only Dean could have honestly pulled off. "C'mon Dean. Time to wake up."

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

Dean was waking up when Sam opened the glove compartment, dug around their mini-cell-phone store, and pulled out two guns from the back. He shoved a Glock into his brother's chest while peering out the windows again.

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

Becoming aware of the noise, Dean started to lock in his high alert-mode. He nudged Sam with his elbow and mouthed, _I think it's on the roof._

Sam nodded, put one hand on the handle, and held up three fingers with his free hand…then two…then one…

The doors flung open, releasing the two Winchesters to the ground while they aimed their guns at the roof of the car, where an… owl sat?

A bang rang out from Dean's pistol but the tawny bird managed to _just _evade the shot.

"Dean! It's just an owl!" Sam yelled.

"I don't care what it is! The damned rats on my car! It's gonna scratch the paint!"

Sam couldn't help but smirk as he and his brother stood up almost simultaneously—though unlike his brother, Dean was positively pissed off. Sam inspected the owl a little while Dean wasted no time and went to the trunk to pull it open. He dug into the drop-down compartment where they kept all their weapons_. _He grabbed a flask with holy water that swished around its container at every shift, and a pure silver dagger before returning to Sam and the owl.

"I think it's got something attached to its leg," Sam noticed.

Dean dripped some of the water onto the bird, only to wet its black, grey, and brown feathers. Demon was instantly crossed off the list. Although, the glare it slapped Dean with could definitely be considered demonic.

It purposely hopped over to Sam as if it was _trying _to scratch the paint and give Dean migraine. It then stuck out one of its legs, revealing an envelope tied to it.

"Pass me the knife," Sam said to Dean, snatching the owl's suspicion. He surrendered his hands, trying to placate the bird before gently bringing them down to the owl's leg. When the knife was close enough, Sam sliced off the twine that attached to letter to its leg, making sure to scratch the bird's leg with it.

"Damn it!" Dean shouted, looking at the white splash of poop that had been left on his roof.

Sam brushed off his brother's colorful language that came rushing out of his mouth and read the address on the envelope.

Dean and Sam Winchester

1967 Chevrolet Impala

Cliff by the side of the Pacific Ocean

California

"Well that's accurate," Sam murmured.

Dean took a moment, halting is rage over the bird, his car, and crap, to notice that Sam was scanning something with the same intensity he used to use when studying for a big exam. He walked to where his brother was leaning on the Impala and read the address along with him.

"A little _too_ accurate," Dean agreed. After a couple more seconds past, Dean's eyes flashed up to his brother with his eyebrows scrunched up like Eskimos cuddling in an igloo. "Well, are you gonna open it or are we just gonna stand here staring at a piece of paper."

"It's parchment."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, thanks, Sam. That helps."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Sam flipped the envelope to the other side and looked at the blood-red seal that kept it closed. There were a few miniscule symbols on it that were much too small for him to make out with his eyes. "What do you think they are?"

"I don't know Sam. You haven't opened it yet," Dean said impatiently as if he were talking to a dyslectic five-year-old being introduced an Oxford dictionary.

"The symbols, Dean," Sam said, pointing the tip of the knife at the seal.

It only caught Dean's interest for a moment before the impatience crept up on him again. He took the envelope and knife from his brother's hands, with an obvious intolerance to waiting. After sliding the sharp blade underneath the seal—carefully enough so it wouldn't rip—he looked inside it.

"More parchment," Sam noted.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes once more. "Yes, Sammy. Generally, envelopes have _letters_ inside of them." Dean smirked as he pulled the letter out and mumbled, "And you call yourself a Stanford-boy."

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

**Headmaster: Albus Percival Wulfrick Brian Dumbledore**

**(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc. Supreme**

**Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)**

"Fancy ass name he's got there," Dean muttered.

**Dear Mr. and Mr. Winchester,**

**We would like to inform and congratulate you that we would consider it an honor that you join our faculty here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your course would be in the training of our students in Defense Against the Dark Arts, which we are aware your father, John Winchester, had you finely trained you in.**

**If you decide to join our staff we will need you to return this owl with a letter of acceptance. If not, please proceed in returning the owl—she will know where I am. If you have any questions—which I assume you will—feel free to contact and ask me. I am free to see you anytime between now and August 11th.**

**Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no longer than August 15th.**

**Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore**

**P.S. The owl has quite the attitude. Stay on her good side.**

"What the hell?"

Sam was just finishing reading the letter for the fifth time when Dean had spoke up.

"Good question. Maybe we should mention it in our follow up."

Dean turned to his brother and raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean 'our follow up'? You can't be serious about writing back to this dude."

"Why not?"

Dean's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "Firstly, he's insane. Secondly, even if anything he says is true, then he's a witch and is probably planning hex us into oblivion. Thirdly, in case you haven't noticed, we've sorta got a crap-and-a-half of problems going down here. Plus, he knows exactly where we are when we only have a faint idea of our friggin' location. Need I continue?"

"I'm still writing back," Sam said, simply. "Even if he is some kinda crazy wicked witch of the west, he still seems to know something that we don't and I wanna find out what it is. We'll ask him to come somewhere on our own turf, that way, if he tries to do anything, we'll have an advantage over him."

"And you really think that's gonna work. This guy's completely insane and you want to have tea with him while you talk about your feelings?"

"Dean, listen to me. I've got a feeling about this guy. "

"So that's what you want me to go on? A 'feeling'? C'mon, you're gonna have to do better than that."

"Fine. Whatever," Sam said, feigning defeat. "Just…think about it. We've got eight days so…think about it."

"Whatever," Dean said, knowing is brother wouldn't drop it if he said anything else.

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><p><em>AN: Yeah! Chappie one is done! I'm kinda sad that the font for the letter didn't come out all fancy like I had it on Microsoft but whatcha gonna do? Oh that's right: Review! _


	2. Don't Do Anything Stupid 'Till Morning

_A/N: So here is the next installment of this little story :D Next chappie will be up next Monday (10/3/11) so mark your calendars! I would've posted this the upcoming Monday - meaning in two days - but after watching the Season premiere of Supernatural, I couldn't wait (Oh and by the b that premiere was pretty much the most super-duper-mega-awsome-cool premiere EVER! I was literally yelling at my TV "Holy s**! Sam's friggin' lost it! Cas is god but now he's "dead"! Death! Bobby! DEAN! Ahhhh!" Welcome to my life.) Well anyway, enjoy._

_Disclaimer (done to that harmonica riff that everyone knows): Der ner ner ner...I don't own HP...der ner ner ner...And I don't own Supernatural...der ner ner ner...But I really wish I did...der ner ner ner...Cause. THAT. WOULD. BE. REALLY. COOL._

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><p><em>(The third of August) Later that night…<em>

Dean was snoring again in unison with the owl in the back seat. Sam probably would have been too if it weren't for the fact that he had so much on his mind. He had already made up his mind about writing his reply letter Mr. Dumbledore. Plus, it wasn't as if he was going behind Dean's back—he _had_ told him, straight to the face that he would be writing back.

He'd actually already written the letter and had it neatly folded into a plain white envelope—one that nowhere near compared to that fancy one that had been sent to them—in his pocket. He intended to send as soon as they reached the nearest motel—that way, they would have a base with the necessary precautions, such as devil's traps and hex bags, set up in case this Dumbledore character wasn't exactly who he said he was.

Now there was just one thing left.

He glanced at his brother to make sure he was still sound asleep before quietly opening the Impala's door and creeping out noiselessly. He gently shut the door behind himself, and peered down through the window to check his brother again. He was still asleep. Good.

He walked away from the car, and down the road that would lead them to the cliff's edge - not that he was going that far. Sam estimated that the highway was about a mile away. That was fine though—he wasn't planning on running away or anything like that. He just needed to be far enough so that, if Dean woke up, he wouldn't be able to see or hear or even smell him; and, if Sam's estimate was right, that was about half a mile away from the car.

He dug his phone out of his jean's pocket and flipped it open. After pressing a few or the glowing blue buttons, he held it to his ear and listened to the ring.

"What?" a female's voice demanded at the other side of the line.

"I'm in California, off the highway in the middle of a road by the Pacific Ocean. How fast can you be here?"

"Give me two minutes."

Sam hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. He paced for a little bit, thankful that it wasn't cold on the West Coast during the summer.

"Sorry I'm late. There's a lot of roads off the highway in Cali, and with your vague description I was haystack hunting to find you," Ruby said, sounding decently annoyed. "Now what do you want?"

He looked at her pleadingly for a moment before saying, "I need it, Ruby…please."

Her eyes seemed to soften a bit—if demon eyes even _can_ soften, that is—as she nodded gently.

"It's okay, Sam," she said, walking towards him. "It's okay."

She ran her fingernail across her wrist, slicing the thin skin open and releasing the intoxicating red gems as she did so. Sam broke eye contact as soon as he smelt her blood. He was sucking the delicious poison from her veins before he had time to realized as Ruby pressed herself up against him and gently stroked his hair, whispering, "It's okay, Sammy. It's okay."

It took longer for Ruby to pull away from Sam than it did the last time they did this—Sam was getting stronger and he would need more of it as he progressed. It was a small price that needed to be paid for Sam's gift, his abilities, and the bigger picture.

At first, Sam resisted in letting go of her bloodstained arm, but Ruby forced him off when she yanked back her arm. Sam subconsciously was working hard to control and restrain himself from attacking Ruby and draining her of all the thick, sweet, addictive blood that polluted her veins.

"Thanks," he said dryly. "I've sorta got this…thing, I've gotta take care of soon."

"You wanna talk?"

Sam hesitated for a second, unsure if he should involve her with this letter. His nose caught the slightest whiff of her blood and he knew he would have to distract himself somehow.

"Dean and I, we got this…letter," Sam started off hesitantly, his eyes flickering between the demon's red wrist and her face. "And…well it wasn't normal."

Ruby made an indifferent 'go-on' sign with her hands when Sam paused again.

He opened his mouth to continue but was cut off by a loud-as-hell honk. A set of yellow eyes flashed to life and all but stripped him of his camouflage that he had worked so hard to keep up. Ever heard the expression, "like a deer in the headlights"? Well, imagine that, with the terminator sitting in the car. Intense, right?

"Dean?" Sam asked, squinting to try to see the driver's seat through the headlights blazing in his vision.

The door was thrown open and Dean came storming out.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean shouted.

Sam stuttered with his eyes expanding to Frisbee-size. Instinctively, he wiped the corners of his mouth with the side of his hand to rid himself of all the evidence that might have been left over from his latest vampiric session.

"What? You couldn't just wake me up and _tell _me you wanted to take a walk in the middle of the night? Do you have any _idea _how worried I was?" Dean pressed furiously.

Sam was so shocked that if a lightning bolt struck him right then in there, it wouldn't have done as much damage. He snapped his head to where Ruby was standing—or where she _had _been standing at least. She had disappeared—or did whatever it was that demons did to transport themselves. Feigning a neck roll, he turned back to face Dean.

"Unless, you were doing something else," Dean continued, not letting Sam's surprise go unnoticed. "You weren't trying to call that Ruby-bitch, right?"

Sam couldn't help but compare his brother's stream of thought to a bipolar tornado—quick, dangerous, and unstoppable.

"No! What makes you think that?" Sam asked defensively.

Dean let his eyes wander to the ground, where right next to Sam's foot, sat his phone.

"Hmm…must of fell out of my pocket," Sam mumbled to himself. "Okay, fine. I was trying to call Ruby. You caught me. Now what?"

"She's a demon, Sam!"

"Really, I had no idea. Well, that changes everything. Oh wait. It doesn't," Sam sniped, sarcastically. "She's been _helping_ me, Dean."

And so the argument started for about the thousandth time in about two weeks.

"This isn't the kind of help we _need_, Sammy. Hell, this isn't any kind of help at all," Dean backfired.

"But it works! If we wanna stop Lilith-"

"Will you _please_ stop using that as a friggin' excuse."

"It's _not_ an excuse, Dean."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it really isn't."

"Really? So you think that somehow someway I'm supposed to believe that sucking demon blood is some kind of holy vocation of the year? In that case, I'll go get you a fucking award, _okay?_"

"This isn't funny, Dean."

"No, you're right. It's not. It needs to stop."

"Dean-"

"Shhh," Dean said sharply, holding up one finger and looking straight at his little brother trying to figure out what to do. "Get in the car."

"Dean," Sam said, in a tone that said 'I'm not a kid you can just bully around'.

Dean didn't really care what Sam's tone may or may not have been saying as he jerked his thumb at the car and continued to glare. Sam held himself for a second before letting his shoulders slump and reluctantly obliged.

As soon as Sam was in the car, Dean folded his arms across his chest and looked at the crumbly floor beneath his shoes. He leant over and picked up Sam's phone. He stared at it dully and after a few seconds strolled by he flipped it open. He forced himself to open the 'recent calls' and his stomach anchored itself to his feet. Sam had gotten a call out to the bitch. Damn.

She'd probably be coming soon, so he'd have to think things through on the way to…really to anywhere—anywhere except for where they were. He buried his emotions deep enough in himself to not get in his way, but shallow enough to dig up when they reached a motel; he was an expert gravedigger in that sense.

Dean quickly pocketed Sam's phone as he walked to the car. He flung the Impala's door open and blasted 'Highway to Hell' as soon as he was seated.

Once they hit the highway, Sam made his first attempt to talk to Dean. Dean refused to respond though. Sam's second attempt was some thirty minutes later, which was, once again, rightly ignored. The third attempt involved Sam started with Sam asking for his phone back—this time, Dean responded by blasting the music loud enough to make the cassette player want to explode.

After Dean got off the highway, they reached a cheap, raggedy motel soon. He booked himself and his brother a room. Dean walked to it so fast that even Sam, with his giraffe-sized legs, was struggling to keep up. They were walking so fast that the owl couldn't even perch on either of the brother's shoulders.

"Dean, we're gonna have to talk sometime," Sam said as they got into the room.

Dean sighed and sat at the edge of his bed, which, as always, was the one closer to the door—just in case someone tried to break in, Dean would be the one to take the first hit.

"Fine. We'll talk in the morning," Dean plainly. Dean turned to where Sam was standing with their two duffle bags on his bed. "I'm tired, Sammy. So could you not do anything stupid 'til morning? I'd really appreciate it."

Sam looked down at his feet; suddenly noticing how far away from is head they were.

"And can you give me the letter you wrote," Dean asked.

At that, Sam's head snapped up. "What letter?"

"The letter that you were probably planning to send behind my back. I'm gonna give it to the bird in the morning."

Sam paused. "How'd you know?"

"Just a feeling. Don't forget to set up the salt lines and hex bags. I'll draw the devil's traps in the morning."

Sam nodded and Dean kicked off his shoes and pulled his Glock out of the back of his pants, where he had it concealed since the owl incident. Shoving the gun under his pillow, Dean collapsed in the bed and buried his head into the pillow, as if he was trying to let it smother him into the next life—of course, the pillow was _way_ too stiff to let that happen.

The owl hooted soothingly and perched on the small, brown dresser next to Dean's bed. Dean was unconscious in a matter of two minutes, during which time Sam had set up their basic defenses. He put the envelope down onto Dean's dresser before drifting to sleep himself.

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><p><em>AN: And there it is, yet another chappie! Review!_


	3. Appointments

_A/N: Here we are (since technically Monday now). The events of my life have been extraordinarily average lately aside from the stupid cold I got on my four day weekend (which is sucky). Oh, the last episode of Supernatural was super duper awesome! (It's sad how many times I watched that episode on replay...to the point where my mom might _actually_ know the plot of the episode 0_0) Yeah, and that's 'bout it. You may proceed in the reading process of this story.)_

_Disclaimer (doesn't feel like being snarky): I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural. _

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><p><em>(The fourth of August)<em>

Dean finished reading the letter that Sam had written and nodded approvingly. It had covered basically all the topics Dean had wanted to go over—excluding "_what the hell, dude!"_—in a short, quick, and to-the-point manner.

He looked up at the owl and it immediately flew to him.

"Oh so _now_ you like me," Dean sarcastically whispered to her. The owl hooted at him in response, as if _trying_ to wake Sam up. Dean immediately hissed, "_Shhh,_ ya flying rat!"

She paused before happily hooting one more, satisfied with Dean's quiet and greatly restrained frustration.

"Look, I already took a shot at you once—that by some miracle managed to miss you—but this time, I'm ready. You really wanna test me?" he whispered threateningly.

When the owl didn't respond, Dean whispered, "Good." He held the letter up to the bird's eye level and whispered, "Now, take this to that Dumbledore-fellow, alright?"

The owl hooted loudly once again before snatching up the letter in her beak and twisting her head at the door. Dean got up and held out his arm, on which the owl jumped and latched its feet around. Dean brought them outside and whispered, "Don't cause no trouble, ya hear?" before releasing her into the air.

When he got back in, Sam was just starting to wake up. "I just had the weirdest dream."

Dean shut the door and turned to his brother, concern flooding his face. "Was it some vision-thing?"

"No, weirder," Sam said, rubbing sleep from his face. "You were talking to an owl like it knew what the hell you were saying."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Shut up."

Sam gave a sleepy-grin to his brother before letting out a monster yawn and stretching his arms. "You sent the letter?"

"No, I was just talking to the bird because we had some issues in our relationship that we needed to talk out. _Yeah_, I sent the letter!"

Sam sniffled a little before saying, "Why have Little Miss Sunshine, when you can have Mr. Bad-Sarcasm. Now what?"

"Now," Dean started, pulling out two orange spray-paint cans, "we paint."

He tossed one to his brother, who caught it swiftly despite just waking up. They set their mattresses aside and drew a pentagram underneath each. The stuff would be a bitch to get out, but it would be a lot easier to clean up than fresh blood and corpses. About fifteen minutes later, they were halfway done with the devil's trap on the ceiling. They didn't talk too much aside from a "You're making the symbol backwards" here or a "here pass me that can" there. They were done sooner than Dean expected and only had one interruption from a maid who had tried wanted to desperately give them some towels—to which Dean had responded to by taking is shirt off, poking his head out, and saying "We're busy in here if you don't mind." The look on her face had been one of the funniest expressions he had ever seen anyone make in years.

They waited for a second and smirked at each other. The two boys broke out into fits of giggles that soon morphed into hysterical laughter. Tears were flooding both their eyes and Dean had at some point collapsed on the ground choking on his own laughter. Sam, on the other hand, was folded up like a chair on the bed clutching his stomach and gasping for air. The laugh lines on their faces were deeper than the Mid Atlantic Ridge by the time they were done.

Dean sat himself upright and looked at Sam, who was also composing himself. "Sam…"

"Yeah, Dean?"

Dean sighed and looked at his Sasquatch brother for a moment. "You know I'm here for you right?"

Sam hesitated and said, "Yeah, I do."

"And you know you can be honest with me, right?"

Sam nodded, waiting for his brother to continue.

"Well then, I think it's about time you—_we_—started doing that. You know, I'm sure as hell that would make things a crap load simpler."

Sam laughed, "Yeah, it would wouldn't it."

Dean's smirk held for a heartbeat before slowly melting from his face. "I'm serious though. Sammy, we grew up together—hell, I changed more of your diapers than dad did—and we're still brothers. I guess somewhere along the way we…forgot that."

Sam's thin lips tightened, he nodded, and softly said, "Yeah."

Den took a deep breath. "Well, we're in this together so we ought to start acting like it, yeah?"

Sam folded his hands on his lap and looked down at them. After a few intense, contemplative seconds left the room, Sam looked at his brother. "I'd like that."

"Good," Dean said with a grin. "Now grab your gun. If this Dumbledore dude isn't who he says he is, we'll have some good old fashioned target practice."

"Whoa."

"What?"

"I…I dunno, maybe I'm going crazy but…I think we just had a chick flick moment…I'm going crazy right?"

"Shuddup."

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><p><em> (The fourth of August) In the Ministry of Magic about an hour later<em>

"Dumbledore, I'm going to have to insist that my Senior Undersecretary, Ms. Dolores Jane Umbridge teaches the Defense Against the Dark Arts course. She is highly qualified and I'm sure that the parents and students will agree when I say that she shall really help raise Hogwarts desperately falling standards," Fudge promptly told Dumbledore, not even bothering to stop in his stride to face the old wizard.

"And I hope that she shall as well, but _I'm_ going to have to insist that you trust my capability in choosing my own staff, Fudge."

"Because that's been working out so well," Fudge said, with a small snort of amusement following closely.

"If you could so kindly let me continue without interruption, it would be greatly appreciated."

Fudge stopped his stride and turned to face Dumbledore. "Proceed."

"I'm aware that you desire to impose Ms. Umbridge on my establishment, and if you are willing to oblige to my conditions, I'll allow her to be employed at Hogwarts."

"And your conditions being?"

"My conditions are simply that while she teaches this course, two other even _more_ finely trained men shall also be allowed to teach as well, that is, without interruption"

"To have three Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers is outrageous, Dumbledore!"

"I'm not asking your permission, Fudge. I'm simply informing you that this is my plan."

"Your plan?" Fudge repeated suspiciously.

"Precisely."

Fudge knew that pushing any further when it came to Dumbledore's 'plan' would result in nothing but more suspicion so he switched the topic. "And who exactly are these professors you speak so highly of? They can't be any better than Ms. Umbridge."

"On the contrary, I believe they are. He only, let's say, drawback is that they're not exactly professors—not yet anyway. The fact of the matter is that they have been highly trained in this specific area of defense since they were mere children. Their names are Dean and Sam Winchester and despite their Muggle-status, they've faced and successfully defeated more evil than some of the most highly-experienced wizards can even imagine."

"Muggles! You plan to hire Muggles in a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry! That's—that's absurd!"

"Fudge, I'll repeat that I am not looking for your permission; merely informing you of the conditions now set. I have a basic trust that you shall respect my judgment and not exaggerate it."

"Meaning?"

"I believe you are fully capable of comprehending my meaning," Dumbledore said. When Fudge continued to stare blankly at him Dumbledore had to resist rolling his eyes for the first time in a _really_ long time. "What I mean to say is that I would appreciate that you don't inform tabloids about my decisions, as I am well aware you've taken a pleasure in doing recently."

"Not inform the tabloids! People still have the right to know what's going on in the world, Dumbledore!"

"And the people that should be concerned—being the parents, students, and yourself—shall be informed, Fudge," Dumbledore said coolly. "I don't understand why people who aren't going to be affected by this decision should have to care so greatly."

"Have you considered that your judgment may be beginning to become…impaired?"

Dumbledore sighed, "No."

Fudge continued to gaze at the wise old wizard as if he had a secret intelligence that could compare to Dumbledore. Though in actuality, Fudge was just a pompous, controlling dictator—even though he failed to notice it.

"This is about Voldemort, isn't it?"

"_Don't use the name_!" Fudge hissed.

"I do not wish to proceed in this conversation again, Fudge. You already know that the evidence of Voldemort's return is overwhelmingly heavy, whether you would wish to carry it or not."

"I'm fine carrying out my responsibilities on my own, Dumbledore. I _am _still Minister of Magic whether you would like me to be or not," the frantic Minister said indignantly.

"Then do your job, Fudge. Take control and _help._ People will be in danger if you refuse."

"_There is nothing to protect them from!"_

Dumbledore sighed again. A single golden, flame-like feather burst into existence and floated between the two men, catching Dumbledore's attention as it landed on the cold ground below them. "I'm going to have to ask that we continue this conversation another time. I have some new professors that I need to appoint with. Good-bye, Cornelius."

With that, Dumbledore disappeared with a 'pop'.

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><p><em>AN: Oh by the by, if I didn't already mention this, it's taking place during Harry's fifth year and the fourth season of Supernatural (you are to ignore the fact that Sam and Dean would have been children during 1995-1996...I'm making it work, don't question me ;) The next chappie should be up on either Sunday or Monday. Review :D_


	4. First Impressions with the New Boss

_A/N: Welcome one, welcome all to the next installment of this story! I'm glad you can make it and hope you enjoy. This chappie's full of a lot of explanations for the Winchesters so go with it. Next chappie will be up on Friday or Saturday. _

_Disclaimer: Once upon I time, I didn't own Harry Potter or Supernatural...and I still don't...The End._

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><p><em>(The fourth of August) In the Motel…<em>

There was a knock on the door, interrupting Sam and Dean's debate over which was the better band: Led Zeppelin or The Rolling Stones. Despite Sam's lawyer abilities, he didn't know how to respond when Dean argued that "Black Dog" could beat "Sympathy for the Devil" in a fight any day.

Their shoulders tensed as the knock repeated itself from the other side of the door.

"Here goes nothing," Dean muttered as he walked to the door. He grasped the handle and looked over his shoulder at Sam. He nodded once and flung the door open as quickly as he could, pulling his gun up as soon as his hands allowed him to.

Sam felt like a jerk pointing his gun at an old guy, but knew better than to lower the weapon out of mere sympathy. The man who may or may not have been Dumbledore was old and bore a long, white, wispy beard that swallowed most of his face and about half of his cheap, grey suit. Creviced in his face were immortal wrinkles, and upon his nose sat half-moon spectacles, guarding his light blue eyes.

"Hello," the old man said, through his beard. "You must be Dean."

"You're Dumbledore?" Dean demanded, keeping his voice even.

"Yes." The twinkle in his blue eyes never seemed to leave—he actually looked slightly amused despite the gun in his face. "I have to admit, this is one of the more…memorable meetings I've had a very long time. "

Dean raised an eyebrow and sarcastically sneered, "Is that so?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, very much. Now, may I enter?"

Dean stepped aside from the door, but purposely didn't say anything. As Dumbledore stepped inside, witch was crossed off the list of things-that-go-bump-in-the-night that this old man might have been—the hex bags sitting around the room would cripple most of the strongest witches out there.

Dumbledore meekly looked up at the ceiling where a Key of Solomon stared down at them before asking, "Were you expecting more company?"

"You can never be too careful."

"Too true."

The old wizard walked out of the devil's traps range, diminishing demon from the list as well.

Dean pulled a silver switchblade from his pocket. He wished that he had more time to make his intentions more obscure but knew he didn't. If this Dumbledore fellow wanted a basic level of trust with the brothers, he would have to submit and pass the tests.

Dumbledore had noticed the knife and said, "You boys truly do know how to make a first impression."

"Yeah, it's a gift," Dean said.

The old wizard extended his hand palm-up in for Dean. He gently slid the blade across the old man's hand; gently enough not to do any serious damage but hard enough to allow blood to dribble out. Not a 'shifter.

"We're starting to seem like a real catch now, aren't we," Sam said with a grin, extending his hand to Dumbledore, who graciously accepted it with the hand that wasn't bleeding. The he did the same for Dean before extracting his wand from the sleeve of his tux.

Dean immediately tensed at the sight of the object despite the fact that he had absolutely no idea what it could be. He exchanged a glance with his brother, mentally asking 'what the hell?' Sam shrugged slightly and locked his glance on the wizard.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

Dumbledore pointed the piece of wood at his hand and whispered something at it that was too low for either Winchester's ears to pick up. Once he was done he held up the wood for both boys to see. "This is my wand."

"No, seriously," Dean said.

"I've just told you Mr. Winchester. It is a wand."

"And _I'm_ telling _you_ that you can't be a witch. First of all, this room is completely witch proof. Second off, witches don't use wands. They stick to sick-o voodoo, hoodoo rituals and hex bags."

Dumbledore hesitated for a moment. "Hmmm. I thought those were extinct."

"Well—_what?_"

"Those kinds of witches were burned alive during the Salem Witch Trials and several other more obscure times of witch and wizard hate. While some of our kind were also captured, we know enough tricks to help us escape the brutal fates nearly forced upon us."

Dean looked like he would spontaneously combust at any second. Sam put a hand on his shoulder because, not only did he need to calm Dean but if his brother started to attack, he would have a better chance of restraining him. Sam wasn't exactly loving Dumbledore's vague answers too much either though and restraining both himself and Dean was definitely going to be…interesting.

"Could you just break this down a bit?"

Dumbledore smiled and said, "Of course. I couldn't expect you to know anything about the well-kept society of witches and wizards, now could I."

Dean lurched forward a little bit but Sam dug his fingers into his brother's shoulders, making it clear that he would hold the shorter man back if he had to.

"Let me start by saying how sorry I am about your father," Dumbledore said, sincerely looking directly into both boy's eyes. "He and I met once. He…mentioned you two and why he was training you. He was a very nice man"—Dean let a small snort alongside a grin—"and very dedicated."

"How'd you meet our Dad?" Dean asked.

"He almost stumbled on our society as you might say, locked and loaded?"

At that, both boys couldn't help but grin; their father had a saying—"shoot first and ask questions later". Now they could relate to what Dumbledore knew of their father.

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"I kindly explained the wizarding world to him after I…persuaded some answers from him."

"What do you mean 'persuaded'?"

Dumbledore regarded the pair before explaining, "I merely feed him a truth solution to find out who he was and what he was trying to do."

"You what?"

"Believe me when I say it is not as bad as it may sound. In my world, it is a potion known as Veritaserum."

Both boys hesitated for a moment wondering things along the line of what they had gotten themselves into. If Dumbledore could trick their father into drinking a truth solution, who knew what else he could do.

Dumbledore, not wanting them to ponder that too long, decided to change the subject. "I believe you two are curios about many things. Am I correct?"

"Hell yeah," Dean said, snapping out of his thought process.

Dumbledore smiled slightly at Dean's response—it had been a long time since he had been spoken to like he was just another wizard—or even just another person.

"Well, a good place to start would be the night sixteen years ago when I received a prophecy from a Seer named Sybil Trelawney, who is currently teaching at Hogwarts." He paused for a moment, to see if they were astonished at the thought of Seers—which they weren't. "She foresaw that a baby would be born by the end of July that year, and he would be marked as the Dark Lord's equal, making this child the only one with the power to vanquish him."

"Dark Lord?" Sam asked, thinking something resembling the Anti-Christ or even Lilith.

"Lord Voldemort was a very powerful wizard. From the time he was a child, he had always been a very advanced student in most subjects. As he grew, he became inquisitive towards achieving eternal life."

Dean opened his mouth to say something but Sam instantly hushed him, so absorbed in the story that he didn't want anything to interrupt it.

"I've always had the feeling he had managed to accomplish his task but had never gotten any proof. See, at the end of July, two babies were born fitting this description but only one was marked. Both of his parents were killed when Voldemort came for him, but his mother willingly sacrificed herself to save him. This created a barrier against anything that would hurt the boy. This way, when Voldemort tried to kill him, it would rebound and destroyed Voldemort instead - though it did leave the boy with a most peculiar scar right on his forehead: a lightning bolt scar."

"Then what?" Sam asked sounding a little too much like an eager pre-school student listening to a fairy tale.

"Voldemort vanished for ten years before showing up again. He had managed to attach himself to a professor and nearly killed the boy again that year."

"Like a vengeful spirit?" Dean asked.

"No, he was more powerful than a spirit, but less powerful than a person."

"Excuse me, but what was the boy's name?" Sam asked.

"His name is Harry Potter. And so, Harry defeated Voldemort yet again that year, but it nearly cost him his life. He managed to recover and was sent back home at the end of the year along with all the other students. The next year proved to be a more critical year to Harry. This was the year that the Chamber of Secrets was opened."

"The Chamber of _what?_ What's that? Some kinda wizard chokey?"

Both Sam and Dumbledore had to throw a look to Dean—Dumbledore's being quizzical and Sam's being to get his brother to shut up.

"What?"

Sam ran a hand through his hair obviously frustrated at his brother's timing to reference some movie.

"The Chamber of Secrets," Dumbledore continued, recovering quickly from the odd American movie reference, "was supposedly built when Hogwarts was first opened. There were four main founders of Hogwarts: Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Helga Hufflepuff. Slytherin didn't believe that wizards who were born to non-wizarding families should be taught at the school, but the others disagreed. Slytherin emitted himself from Hogwarts but, as the legend goes, he built a secret chamber that only the heir of Slytherin would be able to open. Tom Riddle's diary"—

"Wait a second. Who's Tom Riddle and why does he have a diary?"

"Tom Riddle was the young Lord Voldemort. He kept a diary that preserved his young self in it. Harry destroyed the diary and killed a basilisk that year in order to save the school, the Muggle-borns, and a girl who had been tricked into doing Riddle's bidding."

"Umm…what's a Muggle," Sam asked.

"A non-magical being."

"And how exactly did he kill a basilisk. Last I checked, those are some giant ass snakes," Dean pointed out.

"He had managed to retrieve the sword of Godric Gryffindor. With it, he killed the basilisk."

The boys hesitated for a second. "Cool," Dean said sounding decently impressed.

"During is third year"—

"Lemme guess, Voldemort tried to kill him _again_ and Harry beat him?"

"No, this year a man convicted to being a mass murderer escaped from Azkaban—the most secure wizarding prison in the world. Sirius Black had supposedly given away Harry's parents' location to Voldemort the night they were killed and then killed a street full of Muggles. By the end of the school year, we found out that it was another man who had committed these crimes and framed Sirius. His name was Peter Pettigrew—also known as Wormtail."

"How'd he get _that _for a nickname?" Dean asked.

"When he was in school, he was a friend with Sirius Black, James Potter—Harry's father—, and Remus Lupin. Since Remus is a werewolf, the other three friends became Animagus'—which is a wizard equivalent to what you call shape shifters. In other words, they were capable of transforming into an animal of their choice at will—after years of practice that is. Sirius can turn into a black dog; James, a stag; and Peter, a rat. When Harry was born, James had inquired to Sirius in becoming is godfather—which he graciously accepted."

"So this Wormtail-Pettigrew dude gave his friends up? Sounds like a snitchin' little bitch to me," Dean said heavily.

Dumbledore couldn't help but grin a little—he was going to like these professors. He was going to be sad to see them go by the end of the year, as he had been when Lupin had left.

"Last year a competition between three wizarding schools took place. Three students—one from each school involved—were supposed to be chosen, but one of the teachers entered Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire—a giant chalice that would chose the students who would compete. Harry became the fourth contestant and survived numerous tasks with the disadvantage of being the youngest competitor. He ended up being teleported to a graveyard with the other Hogwarts champion. Wormtail and another Death Eater—one of Voldemort's followers—Barty Crouch Jr., who had been an imposter of the teacher I had hired, rigged the tournament so that Harry would win. Unfortunately, they didn't count on the other Hogwarts contestant—Cedric Diggory—being teleported as well. Cedric was murdered in front of Harry that day and then forced to duel against Voldemort, who had just been resurrected. He barely managed to escape alive. When he got back, I sent him off with Barty Crouch—still thinking he was Professor Moody, but I was sorely mistaken. This is when we discovered Barty's true identity. Of course, we managed to find the real Moody soon after."

Sam and Dean took a moment to soak in everything they had just been told.

"This Voldemort dude sounds like a dick," Dean concluded. "What do you want us to do?"

"As I said in my letter, I'd like for you to become my Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers. I'd like you to train my students the way your father trained you."

"You do realize that if we do that, they'll all be scarred for life, right?" Sam asked with absolutely no hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"I believe that is exactly what they need."

Sam and Dean shared a privet conversation only consisting of a few facial expressions, grunts, and shrugs before Dean asked, "When do we leave?"

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hehe, so there you go. Feel free to express your thoughts in a Review._


	5. The Tour Guide's a Cat

_(A/N): Howdy there :)_

_Do you wanna hear about my life? Yeah you do. So I went to the Strawberry Fields Memorial last week for John Lennon's b-day and it was SO MUCH FUN! Like it was really great. I've got video of this one guy who looked just like him! Craziness! Oh and today my school had a lockdown today 'cause some robber was running around on a golf course during our last period class. We had to stay like thirty minutes after school but it was really fun 'cause we all played Ninja and Knives. __I've been having a pretty good week so I'll be posting again on Monday. _

_Disclaimer: I find the accused, nicuvino, not guilty of owning Supernatural or Harry Potter because, while she is still pretty awesome, she is not _that_ awesome. _

* * *

><p><em>(Fifth of August) The next day…<em>

Dumbledore had made the Impala into a port-key to transport them to London the previous day. Dean was quietly grateful that he hadn't been forced to go there by plane, but not totally thrilled with the odd sensation of teleportation. But he was definitely surprised when Dumbledore told them where Hogwarts was—sure they had noticed the British accent, but they just figured Dumbledore had just moved to the U.S. or something like that.

They were currently booked in a room above The Leaky Cauldron. Dumbledore had sent the Impala to Hogwarts—where he had promised to tinker with it so it could work more efficiently in the wizarding world—right after the boys got some clothes, guns, and other 'toys' from the trunk. The owl—whose name they had discovered was Tabel—was snoozing on the headrest on Dean's bed.

They headed down the wooden staircase that morning after another good night's sleep and placed themselves at a table in the back. Sam was reading and re-reading the menu while Dean chewed on a toothpick he had picked up.

An attractive witch with a floating notepad and quill trailing after her came to their table—shocking both Sam and Dean instantaneously (the magic, not the girl). She smiled at them, thinking their mouths were agape because of her looks, and sweetly asked in her British accent, "Hello. May I take your order?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam said unsurely. "What's good?"

Dean's eyes wandered to the menu Sam had placed down on the table and realized why his brother had to read it so many times—all the drinks were anything but 'the usual'.

"Well, if you're looking for something with a kick, I'd suggest some Fire Whiskey," she said casually, "but since it _is _morning, I'll assume you'd want something lighter—maybe a Butterbeer?"

Dean pursued his lips and nodded, "Sounds good, sweetheart. Any good breakfasts?"

"Nothing special," she said, with a flirtatious smile. "Although, I've always liked the way the bacon and eggs comes out. They do it Muggle-style, you know."

"Sounds perfect," Dean said, grinning at the irony.

"And you?" she asked Sam.

Sam had been staring at all the magic items coming to life around the bar—for example the coffee stirring itself in front of a wizard who was reading a book that floated at his eyelevel and flipped its pages whenever necessary.

He tore his eyes away and drew them to the waitress. "I'll have the same," Sam said, with absolutely no idea of what mystery food might come—he'd be fine so long as it wasn't something that would start to eat him.

She smiled and nodded as the quill scratched down the order. When she left, Dean leaned closer to his brother and said, "You have money, right?"

"Uh, no."

"Should we run or something?"

Both their phones vibrated once in their pockets and they simultaneously brought one of their hands into their coats.

"Wait," Dean said, yanking his hand from his pocket. "Didn't Dumbledore say that Muggle electronics don't work in the wizarding world?"

Sam hesitated and considered yanking his own hand from the coat but decided to take the risk. He pulled out his phone first. The screen was black aside from the text along the middle of the screen:

** The gold ones are Galleons**

** The silver ones are Sickles**

** The bronze ones are Knuts**

** -Dumbledore**

"How'd you get your phone back?" Dean asked. He was 100% sure he put it somewhere Sam wouldn't go near even if his life depended on it—deep in his front pocket. Sam would rather bang a moldy corpse than reach down there.

Sam glanced up and shrugged before tossing his phone over to Dean. He dug his hand into his pocket again and produced several weird looking coins.

Sam put some of them on the table and started to inspect them. Dean pocketed Sam phone again—even though it was dead—and reached into his jacket pocket. He felt several of the coins swimming around the bottom but pulled his phone out first.

** The gold ones are Galleons**

** The silver ones are Sickles**

** The bronze ones are Knuts**

** Look for the tabby cat. **

** -Dumbledore **

"Hey do you see any cats around here?" Dean asked.

Sam looked up from the Galleon he had been inspecting and looked around. "No, why?"

"The text I got, it was the same, but Dumbledore said to 'look for the tabby cat'," Dean said. "You think it's like, a metaphor or something."

The waitress came back with their identical meals, which they scarfed down hastily with their eyes running nervously around the room chasing the invisible cat.

When the waitress came back, Sam handed her the correct amount of pay—eight Sickles and four Knuts.

"Ya' know," Dean said with a smile that would make Prince Charming look like a hag, "you could feel free to jot down your number if you'd like."

The waitress cocked her head, letting her strands of long, wavy, blonde hair fall to the side. "What number?"

This time, Sam was the one grinning—but unlike Dean, he made an effort to hide it by looking down and picking unnecessarily at his shirt.

Dean held his grin and went on smoothly, "Never mind. But I'm staying in room Eleven, if ya ever wanna stop by."

The witch smiled again and let her hand brush against Dean's back as she left.

When she was out of earshot and he was done smirking down at his shirt, Sam cheekily said, "No cats."

"But she was quite the tiger, huh?"

"Whoa, claws in kitty."

"_Meow_."

Sam hesitated, mildly shocked by the response. "Uh…did you just 'meow'?"

"No."

"_Meow._"

The boys looked down and saw a tabby cat with some weird ass marks that almost resembled black glasses around its eyes. It was a grayish-silver color with black stripes and a few random strands of brown. It was staring up at them with narrow black eyes as if it were trying to peek into their souls.

"Uh…hi?" Sam said to the cat.

It acknowledged him with a meow, promptly turned around, and started walking away.

"Should we…?" Sam said, leaving the question open for Dean to answer.

Dean hesitated for a second, during which time the cat meowed again. "We've done stupider."

The got up and followed the cat up the wooden staircase and to their room. Sam fumbled with the key they'd been given as the cat pawed at the door and meowed. He pushed the door open as soon as the key was twisted in the lock. The tabby slid into the room with the boys tailing behind. It jerked its head at the door, indicating that it needed to be closed.

Sam silently asked Dean—using only eye contact—whether that would be safe or not. Dean responded with a single twitch of his head.

Dean's hand moved inconspicuously towards the back of his jeans when Sam closed the door. The world was put on pause for a hesitant moment before the cat grew into a person—during which time, both Winchesters had pulled out their guns and pointed them directly at the tall witch wearing glasses matching the cat's eye markings. Her hair was in a strict bun and she was clothed with neat, black robes.

"When Dumbledore told me that you two pulled your guns on him, I assumed he was exaggerating. Obviously, I was mistaken," she said through her tight, thin lips. "I am Minerva McGonagall—Transfiguration professor."

"Yeah?" Dean said, refusing to lower his weapon. "Did he tell you about our M.O.?"

"If it involved hex bags, pentagrams and silver blades, then yes," she said, spitting out each name of the occult objects as if it were acid eating away at her tongue.

Dean nodded once before he brought one of his hands to his pocket and extracted the same blade they used with Dumbledore the night before.

She sighed and held out her palm to Dean, which he gently sliced allowing drops of blood to leak out.

"I'll assume I've already passed the other requirements to gain a basic trust with you."

Dean nodded and said, "We're assuming that your all witches—_and_ wizards—so there's no real point with the hex bags. For now we're only keeping salt lines up in case any of our buddies from the pit decide to pop in."

"I'd suggest keeping the hex bags as well, Mr. Winchester. While they don't completely diminish a witch or wizards magical capabilities, they may cripple them slightly."

"I'll keep it in mind."

McGonagall produced a wand from her inner sleeve and pointed it at her bleeding hand, causing it to instantly clean and close the wound.

"What exactly are you, uh, doing?" Sam asked realizing that Dumbledore had done the exact same thing the previous night.

"It is a self-healing spell. While it does not work on major injuries, it proves itself very handy with minor wounds."

"Oh," Sam said, not really knowing how he should respond to that.

"I'll expect you are curious as to my arrival, correct?" the witch asked, re-placing her wand in her sleeve.

Dean snorted. "Which part? The general idea or the were-cat thing you've got goin' on?"

"The general idea," she said seriously. "Although if you were seriously inquisitive towards my transformation into a cat and back to a human, the answer in simple. I am an Animagus. That means—."

"You can transform into an animal at will," Sam finished wide-eyed in a cross of wonder and amazement.

"Yes," McGonagall said sharply, slightly annoyed at the younger Winchester's interruption. "How did you know that, might I ask?"

"Dumbledore mentioned the word yesterday," Sam admitted. "I sort of thought it might be more…painful though."

"Pessimistic one, eh? Yes, well, at first, when you're still training to become an Animagus, it is. After enough practice though, your bones become comfortable with the seemingly unusual transformation."

Once again, Sam was at loss for words, so tried to pull off the "Oh," again.

"And as for the general," she continued, "Dumbledore is quite busy at the moment and requested that I assist you in getting around Diagon Alley and safely to Gringotts."

"Do I even have to ask what the hell you're talking about?" Dean asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Just follow me," she said patiently. "You'll find out soon enough."

After descending down the staircase, yet again, they stopped at a brick wall. While McGonagall counted the bricks, the boys exchanged nervous glances. She tapped her wand three times on the wall and things started to get weird—enough to break even the Winchester's oddity-scale.

The wall started to ripple—once, twice, three times—from the middle outwards, slowly making the bricks disappear in the same order they had rippled in—leaving an archway that led to a cobblestone street in plain view on the other side.

"What the _hell_?"

McGonagall smiled for the first time since she had meet the soon-to-be professors; their wonder at magic was remarkably similar to that of the eleven year old Muggle-borns entering Diagon Alley for the first time—no matter how many times she had watched the expression smear itself on anyone's face, it never became old.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," she said to the Winchesters.

The trio stepped through the archway and flinched when they heard the bricks chunking and grinding back into their original place.

"Yes, well, follow me," McGonagall said, drawing her natural scowl back to its usual position.

The Winchesters followed her, trying to stay alert to any possible signs of danger—they were finding it difficult due to, well, _everything._

They passed a cauldron stand, where several of the cauldrons were stacked and showing themselves off by stirring the liquid—that looked like plain water but smelled really, _really_ sweet—inside of them without any help. Parents held on to their kids as they bustled around the shops that surrounded them. Screeches and other clamorous sounds where coming from a shop bearing the name "Eeylops Owl Emporium". Several kids varying in size were pressed up against a window admiring something in a store called "Quality Quidditch Supplies". A tall red haired wizard with professor-like glasses jostled into "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions" reading a piece of parchment that had measurements jotted down on it.

There was an obvious dress code of robes and a few pointed caps scattered about. Some of the robes were some of the most magnificent pieces of clothes that they could have been a combination of threads and art—like Michelangelo meets loom or something. Others were rather casual but had an essence of calmness to them. There were several people who bore what Sam and Dean would usually consider 'normal' clothes but it didn't seem to suit them quite right- -like they were trying too hard to look like Muggles because the style of clothing wasn't natural to them.

They neared in on a giant, white building that stared down on all the shops around them. They walked up the steps and to the magnificent bronze doors guarded by a short…_thing_ in a red and gold uniform.

Dean's jaw slacked a little at the sight of the small creature while Sam struggled to conceal a quizzical, slightly offensive look regarding it.

McGonagall, noticing the boy's bemusement, answered the unasked question that was so obviously floating around in both their heads, "It's a goblin. They run and guard Gringotts Wizarding Bank."

"Right," Dean coughed out as they entered the building, only to be greeted by a second pair of doors that seemed to be made of silver. Engraved in it was a saying or poem warning them not to try and steal from them.

After the two goblins guarding that door pushed it open, they entered the huge marble hall. Several hundred goblins sat on high stools behind large desks. Some weighed gems that made the Hope Diamond look like a piece of shattered sea-glass while others scribbled down reasonably large sums that had been loaned or owed. Against the walls were numerous doors that goblins led witches and wizards in and out of—Dean noticed that the people coming out of the doors returned with ruffled, windswept hair (maybe it was some sort of Doc Brown fashion tribute).

Instead of pausing to admire it all like the Winchesters had, McGonagall already started down towards a desk with a free goblin behind it. She was already halfway to the white podium when Sam and Dean noticed she wasn't standing with them. After tracking her with their eyes, they had to jog to catch up with her.

"So what exactly are we doing here?" Sam asked, thankful that his long legs let him comfortably keep up with her brisk pace.

"Professor Dumbledore has set up two Gringotts accounts in your names. You'll need some of our money to buy the necessary equipment for your class. We'll first visit the Hogwarts budget account for your class budget. Then we'll stop by your account,"—she addressed Dean—"where your salary for first quarter will already be. Then yours," she said glancing at Sam.

Not giving them time to ask any more questions, the Transfiguration teacher reached the goblin's desk. The little man had noticed their approach and dove under his desk, desperately looking for something to look for.

"Bogrod," McGonagall said strictly, reading the nameplate on the desk.

There was a hesitation before two narrow, beady, black eyes popped up within their sight. They grew agitated as the rest of its three-foot body hefted itself onto the tall chair.

"Yes," the goblin said in its croaking voice while its frustration made it look even more ugly—if that was possible.

"We've come to retrieve money from Sam and Dean Winchester's safes," McGonagall said, handing over three keys, "as well as the Hogwarts' professor's safe."

"Very well," the goblin said after a few seconds of inspecting small, gold keys. "Follow me."

The wrinkly little goblin hopped from its stool and wobbled towards one of the doors out of the hall. After it opened the door for them, both Winchester's were surprised to see that they were being herded into a thin stone hall with torches burning on the walls. Railway tracks were steeping deep into the impossible to see down passageway. The goblin Bogrod let out a dog-call whistle.

"Uh, what exactly are we supposed to be looking forward to?" Dean asked.

A small cart shot down and forced a sudden halt right in front of them. Bogrod and McGonagall got in without hesitation but Sam and Dean were a lot more reluctant.

"Well, come on," McGonagall said. The brothers exchanged a nervous glance and stepped in.

The second that both their sets of feet touched the iron bottom of the cart, it flung itself straight down. McGonagall and Bogrod were already sitting on one of the undersized, welded-in benches—Sam and Dean, on the other hand were tossed like unloved dolls onto the bench in the back. They gripped on whatever their hands could grasp and struggled themselves into upright positions—amusing the goblin and the witch for two contrasting reasons. The cart jerked to the right, then to the left, and to the right again before going up a nearly impossible steep angle, just off 90degrees.

"I'm gonna be sick," Dean moaned, risking his grip to clutch his stomach. He immediately regretted it as he was almost thrown forward during one of the carts unpredictable yet constant lurches.

Sam's eyes were squinting so much that he could easily be mistaken for an oversized Asian. He was trying to mentally map out their path but was finding it pretty hard due to his stomach's never-ending, distracting back flips.

After at least seventy different twists and turns and ups and downs the cart skidded to a stop in front of an ancient wooden door.

"What's that? Enochian?" Sam asked as he wobbled out of the cart behind McGonagall and Bogrod.

They were all—excluding the goblin—working to regain their sea legs—some more than others of course. Like Dean for example: tripping out of the cart to the platform and nearly breaking his wrists (it looked so pathetic it would have made his father disown him, had he been alive to see it). On the other hand, McGonagall only wobbled like a toddler first learning to walk before up righting herself.

"Protective spells, charms, and hexes more archaic than Shakespearian work," McGonagall answered much too casually.

"Oh, well if that's all," Dean mumbled under his breath as he leant his whole weight against the wall.

Bogrod—who had a heinous smirk glued to his face ever since Dean got out of the cart—stepped up to the wooden door and inserted the key McGonagall had given him earlier. The doors opened like the gates to heaven revealing piles upon piles of the strange wizard currency. McGonagall led the awe-struck boys into the vault.

"This is your share," McGonagall said, indicating what looked like a small fortune.

The witch handed them each two leather bags with small drawstrings on them.

"One's for your class's needs and the other for your personal use," McGonagall explained with the sets of bags.

The boys thanked her and set off to collect the money.

Shortly after, they reluctantly got back into the little iron cart and raced at the speed of light to Dean's vault and then Sam's. Before they knew it, they were back above ground and headed out of Gringotts.

"You will need books for your class as well as some other equipment. Have you any idea how your teaching strategy will be?" McGonagall inquired as they walked out of the wizard's bank.

"Huh?" Dean said.

"Your lesson plans."

"Oh…"—he glanced at Sam, who shrugged—"No, we, uh, well it's been a little short notice."

"Well most Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers use _The Standard Book of Spells_," McGonagall continued unfazed. "Now seeing as you are Muggles, spells won't exactly be your forte."

"Could we have a few days to think over what we're gonna actually do?" Sam asked as politely as he could without exploding at the use of that word 'Muggles'—which, for whatever reason, was really bugging him.

McGonagall sighed as she looked at the two. She really had no idea what Dumbledore was expecting of them so she couldn't help that much—not yet anyway.

"Yes, that would probably be best," she said. "I'll be back in The Leaky Cauldron in two days so try to be ready by then. I'll be there as a tabby again."

Sam and Dean nodded before she disappeared with a 'pop'. Both Winchesters flinched at the sight of a vanishing person.

"This is gonna take some gettin' used to," Dean said.

"Gee, really, Dean. I had no idea."

* * *

><p><em>AN: There you go. The chappie was pretty long but I'm assuming that you're not complaining. If you wanna review, then review. Have a nice day. :)_


	6. A Boy and His Bird  A Boy and His Paper

_A/N: Hiya :) _

_So, here we go. My weekend was pretty uneventful. I managed to do absolutely nothing until about 9 pm yesterday when I decided to start my history essay. Didn't get to sleep 'till around 3 and I ended up having a fever this morning. That was about as fun as it sounds. So, sadly, I didn't get to hand in my assignment today. (LOL. I just realized that this is the first time I've have ever complained about not being in school to hand homework. First time for everything, 'eh.) But on the bright side, I did get to pretend to be a potions master while I poured hot sauce into my soup (don't judge me. I was sick and mildly delusional). That's about it. Read on._

_Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter or Supernatural I would not be here._

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><p><em>(The fifth of August) Later that day…<em>

Sam had managed to work his way into Flourish & Blott's the moment he noticed the bookstore. He quickly gathered some reference books and an interesting set of tales by some Gilderoy Lockhart- - interesting, because they sounded more like fairy tales than personal life stories and they were written with words that Mr. Pre-Law-Sam-Winchester didn't understand (words such as "Horklump", "Flipendo", and "Gytrashes" whatever those were).

"Hey, geek-boy, don't drown yourself in that book," Dean had commented at one point poking Sam in the back of the head, "'cause I absolutely _refuse_ to teach those little brats single-handed."

It didn't take too much longer for Dean to reach the peak of his patience in the shop. Although the occasional growling books on the dusty, cluttered shelves definitely made him flinch quite a few times. He told Sam he was gonna be on his way, and to try to find him if he needed to before leaving.

While Dean dug himself out of the bookstore, Sam burrowed into the deeper, more exotic corners of the place. There was one ancient looking, leather-bound book that, when opened, sent out howling gusts of wind straight in Sam's face; another read the text on the page to Sam in his head; some simply turned invisible upon his touch—a by-standing wizard, who seemed to work at Flourish & Blotts based on his nametag and musky green apron, dully explained to Sam that if he wished to proceed in reading them, he would have to buy them.

Dean had been planning on heading back to The Leaky Cauldron but a middle-aged man shouting inside of Eeylops Owl Emporium snatched his attention. He crossed the road and tried to seem casual—ever notice how when you try to act casual you come across as anything but that?—as he strolled into the jingling door.

He nonchalantly kept one hand on the Glock in the back of his jeans as if it were nothing, and pretended to inspect some weedy-looking garden rats on display—personally Dean had stood in enough revolting motels in the middle of nowhere to have his fair share of rats and was finding it hard to imagine that anyone would willingly take care of one.

"Get down 'ere ya bloody pigeon," the shopkeeper yelled.

Dean peered through the shelves and saw the back of the fat wizard's robes. Dean tried to catch sight of what he was yelling at but the shelves only provided limited view.

There were a few defiant 'caw's before the shopkeeper shouted, "Accio!"

After several ear-piercing squawks and desperate fluttering sounds, Dean risked his hiding place and walked to the other side of the shelf.

"Hey, uh, everythin' alright here?"

The manager stuffed something into a cage and turned to Dean—his body completely obscuring the cage.

"Aye, jus' a loose animal," he said in his thick accent that could've been easily mistaken for Scottish.

"Yeah?" Dean said, trying to peek around the big man as inconspicuously as possible. "Wanna be a little more specific?"

After giving Dean a funny 'you're kidding me, right'-look, he shuffled aside to give the handsome boy view of the equally handsome bird that perched, ready for flight in the cage.

It had melting-amber eyes and a yellow beak with a black tip as sharp as one of Dean's knives. Its chest was sandpaper brown with rectangular strips of baby powder white feathers that vaguely reminded him of a chessboard. Its back was a whole different story—what with its long grey feathers highlighted by several white lines around their edges. Its legs were as thin as spaghetti yet as strong as tree trunks. They were only just a shade darker than yellow but the hook-like claws that would have made Captain Hook flinch, easily contrasted in their steel color. Everything about the hawk was sharp, deadly, and ready to go.

Just like a Hunter.

Dean was going to like the creature.

"How much?"

"Excuse me mate? This 'ere bird ain't for sale. He's a wild one ya see," he tried to reason. "You prolly wouldn't even like 'im, mate. People be rushing back after a week of purchase all the time. Not a good one at all, is he."

"Yeah?" Dean said as if she actually cared. "How much?"

"You prolly _really _wouldn't like 'im, mate," the 'keeper repeated.

_If he calls me 'mate' one more time, I swear—_

"Mate, I'm tellin' you—"

"Look jus' tell me how much the friggin' hawk costs!"

The 'keeper hesitated. "I'll tell you what, if you're not beggin' ta sell 'im back in a week, I'll give 'im to ya half price."

"How much?"

"Fifty galleons."

Dean, being an expert at liars, knew a bluff when he saw one. Well, as far as Dean was concerned, this guy was asking for it.

"I'm sorry, do I look like some dumb-assed wizard to you?"

"No, of course not—"

"Well then tell me,_ mate_," Dean said cutting him off, "you've just told me that he costs one hundred dolla—galleons full price even through he's such a demon-bird. Does that make any—any at _all_—sense to you?"

"Well—"

"I'll give you fifteen galleons."

"Ya see—"

"Going once."

"Thirty," he begged. "A man's gotta make a livin' in tough times."

"Twenty."

"Split it."

"Deal."

* * *

><p><em>(The fifth of August) At the same time…<em>

Sam had picked his way into several books and was being bombarded with lesson plan ideas in his head. The only thing that was potentially problematic was the fact that they couldn't actually perform magic. Yeah, that would definitely be a bit of an issue.

After taking a look at the _Book of Spells_ (editions 1-7), he was trying to figure out what exactly made magic tick. So far, he hadn't found too many useful clues. Sure there were a few theories-of-magic books scattered about but there were no definite answers. He would definitely make some sort of effort to ask Dumbledore about it.

Sam pulled himself up so he could leave—he wanted to run some of his ideas over with Dean anyways.

Outside, a teenager about sixteen or seventeen years old was yelling the title on some newspaper he seemed to be selling as he walked down Diagon Alley. This hadn't been the first time Sam had heard him that day—more like the third. It seemed that the boy kept on walking up and down the cobblestone road in desperate hope of selling the stack of newspapers that floated after him.

"Hey, kid. How much for a paper?" Sam asked as he left the bookshop.

The kid seemed to size Sam up, trying to decide whether or not to scam the foreigner. After seemingly making up his mind he said, "Eight sickles."

Sam sighed. The kid was an awful liar. Sam, who wasn't even familiar enough with the wizarding currency to be completely comfortable using it, knew he was being ripped off.

_Well at least he doesn't have as much practice as you,_ the small voice of the Sam he used to be reasoned.

Sam handed over the coins and took a paper. The boy hesitated for a moment, during which a man with thinning brown hair hit the kid in the back of his head with his own newspaper. "Don't even think about asking for a tip 'till you learn to lie better."

The kid pouted and left before the man turned to Sam, "Kids been running scams ever since they got whiff of You-Know-Who. I can't say I blame 'im though."

"Why?"

"They're like animals—one hint, no matter how small it may be, and they know something's off," he explained. "I'd know seeing as I used to teach 'em. I'm Remus, by the way."

"Sam," he said grasping the hand he'd been offered. "Hey, have I heard of you before? Your name sounds really familiar."

Remus shifted uncomfortably for a second and chose his words with extreme delicacy, "It's possible."

They didn't say anything for a few seconds, creating an awkward silence like that of two teenagers on their first date.

"So you taught?"

Remus looked up and said, "Yeah, a few years ago at Hogwarts."

"Really? What class?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Sam was taken aback for a moment. "Well this'll probably be awkward but, uh, I'm teaching that, uh, that course."

"Wait a minute. Do you mean to say that _you're_ Sam Winchester?"

"Yeah. Where'd you hear of me?" Sam inquired.

Remus unfolded his newspaper and pointed to the front cover.

**Muggles at Hogwarts?**

"What the hell?" Sam mumbled opening up his newspaper.

**In the latest of Albus Dumbledore's unhinged and distraught attempts at refashioning the teaching methods at the famed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it is safe to say that he has finally reached the most radical of his trials—Muggles teaching in the Defense Against the Dark Arts post! As it is, Dumbledore is adamant about this irrational arrangement and seems to believe it is socially as well as professionally acceptable—despite obvious flaws.**

**The Ministry of Magic has made as much of a resolution to this situation as Dumbledore is permitting. For this year, Hogwarts will have three Defense Against the Dark Arts professors—Dolores Jane Umbridge, Dean Winchester, and Samuel Winchester (the Muggles being the two latter).**

**Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Dolores Jane Umbridge is the Minister of Magic's—Cornelius Fudge—first appointed to take up the third, more rational and most definitely imperative, position of one of this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. She is expected to be the inimitable professor out of the newly founded trio. "Yes, well, the _Minister_ originally was going to arrange that I—and I_ only_—would be administered in this prestigious position—since I _do_ have several plans and ideas which I'd like to contribute to the dramatically falling standards at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Seeing as it is, I'll be _forced_ to collaborate with these Muggles as well as the other, hopefully more rational professors. I'm sure any sensible witch, wizard, or professor will agree with me when I say that Dumbledore is plotting something and it simply _cannot _be good," said Umbridge in an exclusive interview with _The Daily Prophet_.**

**As for the background of the two Muggle professors, we've only been given a vague understanding of their past. After a conversation with the Minister of Magic himself, we've discovered that these Muggles are supposedly "familiar with the supernatural" because they were apparently "trained since childhood." The only fact that was received in our discussion was that the two professors are in fact brothers with absolutely no training or means of using magic.**

**The administration for the Defense Against the Dark Arts has a history of being corrupted—the most recent ending in death (Quirinus Quirrell), insanity (Gilderoy Lockhart), a werewolf (Remus Lupin), and last year an escaped convict masquerading as ex-Auror Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody (Barty Crouch Jr.) With any luck—which seems more and more unlikely due to certain impaired judgment—Ms. Umbridge will be able to get Hogwarts back on track before it is too late for the academic academy. In itself, this is a tale worthy of even Harry Potter himself.**

**_Written by: Percy I. Weasley_**

The second he had finished the article Sam knew something was up.

"Lemme guess. You're the Remus they mentioned in this damned thing?" Sam said, shaking the ridiculously opinionated paper angrily. Remus nodded. "Great. Just fantastic."

He didn't really understand why he was so pissed off. Why should he care about this Minister dude's little pissing match with Dumbledore anyways? Taking it out on Remus was definitely uncalled for. Maybe it was the article's fault—it _had_ discreetly managed to discredit their reputation in the paranormal world after all they had done and sacrificed to help save everything. He _had_ been the one to sacrifice his 'white picket fence' life to hunt all the little things that went _bump_ in the night, right? He had saved numerous possessed people with limited damage, and got rid of ghosts/poltergeists for all those haunted people, and he was the one who was _destined_ to defeat Lilith, for heaven's sake! Yeah, it was definitely the paper.

"We need to talk."

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><p><em>AN: There you go. If you wanna review, do so. Bye-bye._


	7. What Happens at Grimmauld Place

_A/N: Howdy there. :)_

_So I went to my school's Coffee House last night (it's basically where talented people do shit) and had a really great time. I think I'm gonna sign up for the next one that comes around ('cause I play guitar, and harmonica, and sing and shit). Yep. Oh, and that's also why I didn't post yesterday (it ended late, I got home later, then I had to watch the new Supernatural episode…because on my priority hierarchy, Supernatural comes first) Yeah, so there's the story of my life. _

_Oh and thanks for the reviews! _

_vsama (): **(miniSpoiler)** Yep. I wasn't going to but I got inspired. Cas comes in a few chapters. So does Bobby. I'm still working on a plot line to keep them in the story._

_aquabliss: Thanks :) I really appreciate the support. _

_Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. Don't own Supernatural. Do own computer. Do own creative rights._

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><p><em>(The fifth of August) At the same time in Number twelve, Grimmauld Place…<em>

Harry stomach growled at the sight of the various sandwiches that Mrs. Weasley had whipped up for them—some of which were toasted, stuffed with an assortment of sliced meats, cheeses and vegetables, or dripping with condiments. With all the work they'd been doing mixed with a lack of lunch, Harry had been left starving—well, maybe not Dursley-worthy starving but definitely quite hungry.

"Sorry for the late lunch," Mrs. Weasley apologized as she bustled around handing everybody a sandwich. "I didn't realize how long those Porlocks and Diricawls would take to round up, and you know how time just"—she lip-trilled and then laughed nervously—"slips away."

They all mumbled their "thank-you"s to the mother witch, and wasted no time in gobbling the lunches up. They were eating so fast that they barely tasted everything they were choking down. Mrs. Weasley watched them as if she was waiting for one of them to spontaneously combust or have a mental breakdown in front of her before deciding that they wouldn't, bustling down the stairs, and peering over her shoulder with every few steps.

"What was that about?" asked Ginny, watching the stairs her mother had just left down.

"No clue," Fed and George chirped simultaneously.

"Extendable Ears?" George suggested with a mischievous trademarked Weasley-twin-grin.

"It's like you read my mind."

The twins disapparated from the room with a _crack _that would have startled anyone unfamiliar with the Weasley twins' excessive use of apparation and disapperation. Seconds later the pair reappeared exactly where they had been standing before. Pulling out six fleshy ears with equally fleshy strings attached to them from their pockets, the twins let their faces morph into mischievous, impish smirks.

Harry had been at Grimmauld Place long enough to how to weed out when and why Mrs. Weasley was acting wary. During their last eavesdropping session, they had learned that Mr. Weasley would be going to Diagon Alley to get their robes for the year. Of course, if they had waited five minutes longer, they would have found out that the Ears were unnecessary because Mrs. Weasley had come up with an enchanted tape measurer to take their measurements. Still, that wasn't always the case. Sometimes, when an important meeting was being held, Mrs. Weasley would put an Imperturbable Charm on the door to ensure that the words spoken within remained private. Usually, if there were simply casual conversation being thrown about—if wizard conversation even could be "casual"—the charm wouldn't be in place. Seeing as they hadn't been strictly told to stay locked in their rooms, they were assuming that the Ears would work just fine.

Harry first guess was that Mr. Weasley had not come back yet and Mrs. Weasley was getting worried. Harry couldn't blame her for that though—what, with Voldemort buzzing about now. Nothing would be safe anymore—not that he was supposed to know that though.

The Weasley twins passed out the Ears to everyone in the hall—as they became so accustomed to doing over the course of the summer—and made sure the coast was clear.

"Are you sure we ought to be doing this?" Hermione asked cautiously as she did every time she received an ear. "The last time you got caught, Mrs. Weasley nearly blew a gasket."

"Simple solution, Hermione," said George.

"We don't get caught," Fred finished.

One by one, they lowered the Extendable Ears over the staircase's rail. At the bottom of the stairs, the Ears were wriggling their way under the door and sending whatever intelligence they had received back up to them.

"—in _The Daily Prophet_," Mr. Weasley finished.

_Okay, so Mr. Weasley's back_, Harry noted in his mind.

"Yes, well this is a pretty risky stunt Dumbledore is pulling," Mrs. Weasley agreed, repressing how aghast she really was.

At the top of the stairs, all the Weasley's present—being Fred, George, and Ginny—were shushing Ron when he started asking what they thought their parents were talking about.

"_Risky!"_ Sirius bellowed. "It's downright _preposterous_!"

"Keep your voice down, Sirius," Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Anyway, he must know what he's doing right? He wouldn't just—"

"Face it Molly, _we_ don't know what he would or wouldn't do," Sirius said. "Even the Ministry knows he's up to something."

"The Ministry is paranoid! You know _that_," Mrs. Weasley hissed. "They would make a front page story of him eating at a chippie if they thought it was too fishy!"

"The Ministry isn't creative enough to pull this out of their—!"

"Hold it," Mr. Weasley butted in sounding fairly level headed. "Mind you, this is Dumbledore we're talking about, not the crackpot that the Ministry is making him out to be. He obviously knows something we don't and we'll just have to trust him."

"Well of course we have to trust him!" Sirius hollered exasperated. "What else can we do?"

"Muggles though? That doesn't really sound like something he would do," Mrs. Weasley tried to reason. "What if this is just some—I dunno—ruse?"

"Well, if it is, it's one helluva ruse," Sirius said, obviously unconvinced. "It's gotta have some backbone to it. I said it before: the Ministry is nowhere _near_ this creative. Even if they were, it's a newspaper; they're not allowed to make up things without at least a little proof."

"I honestly don't think this is a ploy," added Mr. Weasley. "_Other_ than the usual bull-cock they added in, that is. Sirius is right—it's much too far-fetched for the Ministry to just have made up."

"You didn't hear anything of this sort at the office, did you?" Mrs. Weasley asked her husband.

"I'm just as surprised as you are, Molly."

"Well...it seems like there's nothing we can do but wait then."

There was murmured agreement before someone got up and started towards the door.

The fleshy strings were franticly hauled back to the top of the rail where each of the gang donned a bewildered face as they tried to suss out the conversation they'd just peeked in on. None of it really made sense. Throughout that entire conversation, the witch and wizards had managed to completely avoid the subject of talk, leaving those at the top of the stairs still in the dark. Maybe they'd decided to only talk in code as a precaution against any spying Ears or it was jut coincidence. Either way, Harry wasn't keen on it.

"Could that have been any more vague?" asked a frustrated Harry.

"Well, they could've said nothing at all, mate," reasoned Ron. "Or worse—whispered."

There were a few responsive giggles but not many due to Harry's slowly increasing level of hostility.

"What do you suppose they were talking about then?" Ginny asked, starting their brainstorm of possibilities.

"It could've been anything," Hermione muttered. Then her eyes started darting around as she tried to connect the dots. "Risky…Muggles…Dumbledore…"

They all watched Hermione incredulously as she murmured the main points they had received under her breath.

"They said something about a plot," Harry pointed out. "What do you reckon _that _meant?"

"Well," Hermione said, snapping out of her trance-of-reason, "it's either the Ministry's made some lie—and a big one by the way they were talking about it—about Dumbledore or Dumbledore's done something huge—_really_ huge. Something huge enough to discredit himself without Ministry '_help'._"

"Maybe…" Ron started and cut himself off.

"What?" a few of them demanded at once.

"Well, maybe Dumbledore's done something to the Muggles."

"Like what?"

"Dunno…exposed us?"

They all contemplated that for a moment, mulling the possibility over in their heads and trying to fit it into the situation; they were all surprised by how easily that option fit in.

"That actually makes sense, Ron," Hermione finally said, in a voice that contained, what might have very well been awe.

"Good for you," said Fred.

"We might actually consider not denying that you're our brother in public if you end up being right," George agreed.

Ron smiled weakly for a moment as if he was slightly surprised at himself as well.

"So even if he did expose the wizarding world," Harry started, "why hasn't he been arrested or something?"

"Harry, this is _Dumbledore_ we're talking about," Hermione said. "He wouldn't push a button unless he _knew_ it wouldn't cause an explosion."

Though the Weasley's were obviously flustered by the analogy, Harry understood it completely—and it held to be true. Still, something was…off about these circumstances.

"You know what?" Fred said, turning to his twin.

"What?" George asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"I think that we oughtta nick _The Daily Prophet _off them."

"Whatcha thinking?"

"Five to ten minute distraction."

"Should be good."

The gang plotted—though Hermione made her reluctance clear enough with her distinct _humph'_s thrown whenever something that might work was suggested. Soon enough, they had decided to try to make it as simple as possible—raising much protest from the twins—and had a plan.

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><p><em>AN: There you have it. I think it was a bit short but the next chappie's longer. If you wanna Review, go for it. Bye-Bye._


	8. Speak Fido Speak Wizard

_A/N: Ciao :) (that's Italian for Hello…or at least that's what google translate told me)_

_I've got a test everyday this week! AHHHHH!…*sighs* oh well. I can't wait for Friday's Supernatural (*fan squeal*). It looks so awesome that it may or may not make the awesomeness scale break in a fiery explosion of awesomeness (Yes before you ask, this _is_ what I tell myself every week when I see a supernatural preview)._

parakeet_: thanks a bunch! I read everything over like fifty times and drive myself insane trying to make everything as perfect as humanly possible. _

INMH_: glad you like them :) This is just proof that I watch Supernatural _way_ too often and have ready the Harry Potters one time too many. 0_o _

Suuki-Aldrea_: Thanks! _

Raven Aorla_ (and really anyone who was wondering about Cas): __YES, CASTIEL, ANGEL OF THE LORD, MR.-I-RAISED-YOU FROM-PERDITION IS COMING! (*Writes this in all caps just so everyone from here to Mars sees it*) Just give him a few chappies. I promise. He's coming. :)_

_Disclaimer Time: If I owned Supernatural, Sam and Dean wouldn't be allowed to wear shirts…ever (stop smiling stupidly at your computer screen. I'm Sirius)(…I should be severely punished for that pun...). If I owned Harry Potter - HA! As if I owned Harry Potter! _

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><p><em>(Fifth of August) In Diagon Alley…<em>

"Why're they talking about Dumbledore like that?" Sam asked with the newspaper still tightly grasped in his hands. "And the Potter kid."

"The Ministry," Remus started as he walked down the cobblestone road, "refuses to believe that Voldemort has returned. Instead, they've decided that the best course of action would be to deny all evidence we've given them and belittle Dumbledore and Harry."

"But that's just stupid."

"Well not all people seem to think that. Look at this from the Minister's point of view for a moment: We haven't had to deal with a situation like this for over fifteen years and now it's all coming back again. The last time this happened, war was _everywhere_ and we barely were able to make it through. If it weren't for Harry, I doubt we would have made it though—not completely at least. But now it's back, _He's_ back, and the Minister is the one pinned with both the expectations and qualifications to fix it. And to top it that off, Fudge has decided that the only thing Dumbledore is after is his job."

"Is he?"

"Of course not! Besides, if Dumbledore wanted to be Minister, he would have already been there."

They both heard the jingling of a door to their right followed by the shouting of, "Sam!"

They both whirled around to see Dean with a magnificent bird riding on his shoulder and his hand grasping a large cage filled with a package of birdseed. Dean smiled cheekily as he gathered himself over to them.

"What is _that?_" Sam asked with his eyes dodging between his lunatic brother and the hawk riding in shotgun.

"What? Him?" Dean said, shrugging his right shoulder. "My new pet. His names Zimmerman."

"Are you crazy?"

"Not yet. Who's your new friend?"

"Remus," the werewolf said, sticking out his hand, oblivious to Sam's surprise.

"Hi, I'm Dean," he said idly. "Hey what's that?" He grabbed the newspaper from his gaping brother clutches. "Close you're mouth before you catch a fly."

"We were actually just talking about that," Remus said, referring to the article Dean had started reading.

Sam seemed to come to his senses and inspected the hawk while Dean read the article. Sam wasn't the only one doing some inspections though—Zimmerman was inspecting Sam as well while Remus was painting a mental picture of Dean, one of the next professors to take up the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.

"Did we do something wrong?" Dean asked innocently looking up from the paper as he finished reading it.

"You could say that," said Remus with a shrug.

Dean sized Remus up for a second before lunging at the man with his gun shoved on his temple. Zimmerman had jumped into the air to watch the scene from above.

"Dean!" Sam shouted.

"He's a werewolf, Sam!"

"I know that, Dean!"

"Could I butt in?" Remus asked tentatively.

"NO!" Dean barked and Sam said in unison.

Sam cautiously walked to his brother and whispered, "You're making a scene."

Sure enough, upon looking up, several by standers were giving them looks that resembled those of excited students looking for a fight and horrified orphans begging not to be beaten. Dean reluctantly backed off, and signaled for Zimmerman to re-perch on his shoulder.

"Dumbledore trusts him," Sam whispered. Dean raised an eyebrow, telepathically asking how he knew. "We talked. He's not crazy."

"Well neither was Madison."

Sam felt a painful sting jolt through him at the remark, but knew better than to let it show too obviously. Dean immediately regretted the comment as he noticed Sam stiffen up the way he always did when he was trying to bury his emotions, but knew what he said was the uncensored truth.

"He could be lying."

"He worked at Hogwarts. Dumbledore must have had some contact with him."

Dean was forced to grudgingly accept the answer. Starting to burn the bridge, Dean turned to the man he'd been prepared to kill a few moments ago and asked, "So what's the big deal with us then? You know, other than the whole…'Muggle' thing."

Remus hesitated in answering the man who had just attacked him in the previous minute or so. He let it go before answering and explaining all the things he and Sam had ran over before.

"So we're not supposed to know about this holly-jolly community even though we've dealt with things way worse?" Dean questioned.

"Well you're a special case. I'm sure that once the Ministry starts looking into you they'll begin to realize you may actually be a threat. That'll be the next thing they put into the papers," explained Remus. "But, with most Muggles, we conceal ourselves so that we won't enslave or be slaves to your race, and go into a huge freedom war versus your kind."

"Could you_ please_ stop referring to us as if we're Chewbacca's?" Dean asked. "It's getting a little weird."

"What's a Ch-chew-bacca?" Remus asked, butchering the word as he tried to repeat it.

Dean sighed, "Never mind."

"Hey, this'll seem a little off topic, but have you given any thought to our class?" Sam asked his brother.

"What? No, there's noting to think about," said Dean. "Dumbledore wanted us to train them like dad did for us—no matter how screwed up that might be."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. Whaddaya want me to do? Draw you a picture?"

"Well, there are so many topics we can go over—"

"We can't do magic so we stick with what we know. Simple."

"And what's that?" asked Remus.

"Fighting. Cunning. Planning," Dean started. "Animal. Mineral. Vegetable."

Remus grinned glad he could understand the humor.

"What'd you do for your class?" Sam asked the ex-professor.

"Pretty direct stuff—spells, hexes, jinxes, a little bit of magical creatures here and there," Remus said.

"Well, we can't do spells or any of that, but magical creatures we can deal with," Sam commented, as he mentally took notes.

They were unconsciously leading themselves back to The Leakey Cauldron as they talked school and wizard politics on and off again. Before they realized it, they were all draining Butter Beers and scarfing burgers—or in Sam's case, several salads and a fulfillment of a two beer limit.

"So anyway, Dean, what's with the bird?" Sam asked. "You never gave me the full detail."

Dean smirked. "I saw him in that shop and I had to get him outta there. The geezer in there was a total jerk."

"Owls are usually more popular at Hogwarts, but I suppose hawks work just as well," Remus added.

"What?" the Winchesters asked in unison.

"You know, for sending letters or packages," Remus said. "Dumbledore's actually got a phoenix."

"Bud, keep with the times. People have phones," Dean said.

"What's that?"

Sam ran a hand through his hair while threw an are-you-crazy look to the werewolf. Finally answering, Sam dismissed the topic, saying, "Never mind."

"Well, I must be on my way now, anyway," Remus said abruptly as he checked the watch latched around his wrist. "I guess I've lost track of time. Feel free to write me if you need anything."

"Will do," Dean said.

Remus got up and left the joint after leaving the correct amount of gold to pay for his meal. The boys also left coins to pay plus a small tip for the waitress Dean had been hitting on.

"I dunno, I think she'll stop by," Dean said as he unlatched the door.

"Yeah, but c'mon, Dean. Where'm I gonna go?"

"You'll figure something out."

"Hello." They both flinched as the clear blue twinkling eyes and long wispy beard greeted them as they entered the room. Dumbledore stood in their room not doing anything of great importance. Both Winchesters removed their hands from the guns that they had reached for out of habit.

"I'd like to talk some things over with the two of you," the old wizard said.

"Uh, yeah…hey how'd you get in," Dean asked, frustratingly frightened.

"That is neither here nor there," said Dumbledore.

"You know, I wanna talk some things over with you as well," said Sam with clear frustrations. "Were you planning on telling us about your little pissing match against the Ministry or were you just hoping we wouldn't find out."

Dean was slightly intrigued by Sam's sudden defiance against an authority. It actually took him a second to convince himself that his brother wasn't possessed or something. Then he realized that Sam being a rebel to authority shouldn't have really come across as a shock to him—what, after growing up between Sam and their Dad?

"Yes, I was hoping we'd be able to burn that bridge once it was reached."

"Well we're here. Do you wanna strike the match or what?"

"May we talk about wizarding politics after speaking about your class. I'm aware you have some questions, Mr. Winchester."

"It's Sam," he said roughly.

"If that's what you're more comfortable with."

"Okay," Sam started, ignoring the part of him that was feeling like a total jerk, "how can we teach magic?"

"I believe your brother had it right when he said I wanted you to teach with your father's tactics."

"How could you have possibly heard that?" the younger Winchester sputtered.

"I _am _a wizard, Sam. I've got quite a few tricks," he said with an old man's timeworn grin.

"So why'd that McGonagall-lady want us to buy textbooks," Dean butted in before Sam had time to pop a vein.

"I hadn't enough time to fully inform Minerva about my full intentions for your course. I've been quite busy lately."

"Yeah? And what exactly are you_ so_ busy with?" Dean demanded.

"A court case," Dumbledore said, completely throwing them off.

"Wait—what?"

"A court case. Harry Potter was put in a situation on the second of August, where he was forced to use magic outside of the school bounds and the Ministry wishes to persecute him."

"Oh," Sam said dumbfounded.

"As for your course now, you won't necessarily need text books, but you'll probably need equipment. Hogwarts will be capable of supplying some of the occult objects you may or may not be familiar with," Dumbledore explained in a voice as slow as a snail yet as enticing as a grandfather telling a good story to his grandkids.

"What occult objects?" Dean asked.

Whether they realized it or not, both Sam and Dumbledore mentally sighed in their minds at the same time.

"Dean, really?"

"_What_?"

Sam ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Okay, I'll take this slow for you 'cause you're my brother. Silver knives, hex bags, salt rounds—."

"Yeah, yeah, I know all those," Dean said. "But I'm talking about _his_."

"Ours are more difficult to come across in a common Muggle house hold—some even nonexistent to them," Dumbledore said. "Some such as Sneakoscopes, foe glasses, time turners, secrecy sensors for example. Then there are some of our more playful things like brooms, remembralls, and even dungbombs. Have I lost you yet?"

"The moment you sent that letter," Dean said. "Should I make a list?"

"No need, you'll discover this all soon enough," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "I have an hour to spare at your expense. Would you like to—as they say—'spit-ball' several ideas."

"That's fine," Sam said tightly.

"Good. Let me first tell you the terms of your teaching at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said. "Since you are both Muggles who have been exposed to our world, the Ministry will do whatever they can in their power to persecute you. I've managed to get Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, to agree to some terms of mine."

"Umbridge?" Sam asked, saying the name like a question.

"She was the Minister's idea. The two terms that I decided upon were that you weren't to be written about in _The Daily Prophet,_ and that you will be allowed to teach without interruption. With a general deal like this, we'll be capable of absconding most issues that they may try to burden us with. Seeing as Fudge has already broken part of our deal by allowing that article to be published, if we were to be forced into a trial, I would be able to hold that against him. Also, if Fudge or Ms. Umbridge were to try to break the last term left, the deal would become irrelevant and I would be forced to have her fired."

"So, we're good, right?" Dean asked.

"Good enough."

"So about our class," Sam started, "if we're gonna be doing this class I figured we could go over a different topic each day. I mean, like Mondays we'd cover occult objects, Tuesdays monsters, demons, and ghosts, so on and so forth."

"Well that sounds fine but you'll have to learn the wizard world equivalents such as how wizard ghosts are given the choice to stay or leave while Muggle ghosts are able to stay usually due to tragic death," said Dumbledore. "And with the occult objects you should probably cover both the Muggle versions and the wizard ones."

"Cramming it is," Dean said with a nod.

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><p><em>AN: There you go. If you wanna review, do so. Addio! _


	9. …Stays in Grimmauld Place

_A/N: Kumusta :) (That's apparently Filipino, oh the joys of Google translate)_

_My tests went pretty good, 'cept for science ('cause I suck at science) On another note, I'm looking forward to Halloween (uh duh) but still don't have a costume ready. I mean I have some basic ideas but I haven't actually put anything together…yet. _

_Raven Aorla: Thanks for the clarification. It actually came in handy in either this chap. or another when I used 'persecute' instead of 'prosecute'. I've changed it to keep it from happening again. :)_

_Nouri: Neither can I_

_INMH: I've been overloading on Supernatural to the point where my mom thinks it's unhealthy. *Sigh* She'll never understand. Don't even get me started on Harry Potter_

_Suuki-Aldrea: No they don't know the difference between the human werewolves and the wizard werewolves. They'll figure it out eventually though._

_Illucida: I hope you like what's to come then_

_lisa demonic angel: I like the enthusiasm but I couldn't really understand what you were saying towards the end…Well anyway, I hope you like what I do with Cas in a few chappies._

_Shadowess 88: I'm playing with Percy a bit and you see some reactions in this chap. I'll explain more about his job situation in later chapters. It is taking place in the Fourth season, and if you're a careful reader, you'll later find out after which episode. No they don't know about Chuck yet though and before you commented I wasn't even going to have him in the story 'cause I didn't know how to tie him in…but now I do! He'll be coming in way way way later though. Oh and thanks for the longest review ever! I was so happy when I saw it!_

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys really made my day :) 

_Disclaimer: And if you look to you're left, you'll see me not owning Harry Potter…*takes a few steps forward* And if you'll look to your right, you'll see me not owning Supernatural. I hope you have enjoyed your tour of things I really wish I owned but don't. Have a nice day. _

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><p><em>(The fifth of August) In number twelve Grimmauld Place <em>

Dinner was about to get started in number twelve, Grimmauld Place, though it was relatively quiet for once. Since barely any of the Order had showed up there was bound to be enough leftovers to feed a small army.

The gang had been betting on a bigger group so there would already be enough commotion strewn about, but they'd still be able to follow through—like Fred and George had said, "When there's no commotion around—" "—it's up to you to _make _some"—the former saying the first part and the latter finishing it off.

It was a pretty simple plan after all.

Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione headed downstairs trusting everything they had schemed in the twin's identical hands. Upon inspecting the room they saw that the eldest of the Weasley brothers, Bill, had dropped in along with the second oldest, Charlie, who must have been on a temporary vacation from dragoon wrangling in Romania. Harry was surprised to see neither Remus nor Tonks there since they had taken to coming every other day in turn—whether they realized it or not.

"OW!" George yelled upstairs.

"Sorry, George! Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

Soon enough Fred was rushing down the stairs light speed yelling, "Mum! Mum, I need some help! It's George! He's bleeding!"

Fred 'accidently' bumped his arm into Sirius' mum's portrait when it refused to respond to his yelling right in front of it. There was a heartbeat of silence before the metaphorical dogs of hell broke loose.

"FRED! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR BROTHER!" Mrs. Weasley shouted.

"_FILTHY BLOOD TRAITOR BRATS BESMIRCHING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!" _

Mr. Weasley and Bill had set off to placate the portrait while Charlie set off to save his mother's stew from brewing over in its cauldron, which it was very close to doing seeing as she had nearly missed the last clockwise stir for the thick, rich-smelling liquid.

"_HALF BLOODS, MUDBLOODS, AND VILE EXCUSES FOR WIZARDS!"_

"THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE!" Mrs. Weasley screeched.

"IT WON'T STOP, FRED!" George added in a realistically worried scream of his own.

Harry and the others had an agenda of their own to fulfill though. They each started digging and searching for the well-hidden newspaper around the dining room. They all took over different parts of the room and began opening and shutting cupboards. Upon opening his fifth or sixth cupboard, Harry heard someone cough conspicuously behind him.

"What are you all searching for?" Sirius asked as he entered the room.

"Sirius!" Harry gasped, surprised that he had completely forgotten his godfather lived here. Everyone stopped what he or she were doing and started mumbling some excuses, embarrassed for having been caught.

"When I saw everyone rushing out of here, I figured something was up," Sirius said raising his voice deliberately above all of theirs'. " Looks like I was right. Promise I won't tell Molly."

Harry couldn't help but grin. "You wouldn't happen to know where they're hiding _The Daily Prophet?_"

"And here I was thinking you where looking for something important," Harry's godfather said with a mischievous smile. "Technically I haven't an idea where Molly hides the thing"—he tapped his foot against the cupboard he was standing near— "but this _is_ my house after all. I didn't see a thing."

"Thanks," said Harry with a grateful smile on his face as Sirius left the room.

They all rounded on the cupboard, finding a large stack of this summer's issues of _The Daily Prophet_. Sitting on top was the most recent edition. Harry picked it up, and tried reading the cover but Ron suddenly snatched it away from him.

"Ron! What're you doing?" Harry demanded as Ron shoved the paper up his pant-leg frantically.

"If you _ever_ even _try_ to make one of those-those _things _again, I'll cut both your noses off myself—believe me I will!" Mrs. Weasley ranted as she stampeded down the staircase closely followed by the twins. "That'll show you what it's like to really bleed!"

"That was brilliant," Harry whispered to Ron as they started to take their seats.

"Well, you'll have to thank Sirius' mum. If she hadn't stopped screeching, I'd have never sussed it out."

"Fat chance there."

"Charlie! Bring in the stew!" Mrs. Weasley yelled into the kitchen. "Hermione, what is it dear? You look as if you've seen a grim."

Hermione gave a hesitant chuckle.

From there, dinner continued as a pretty basic meal, aside from Ron's hand dipping under the table to reposition the constantly drooping and dropping newspaper in his pant leg. Thankfully that didn't receive too much attention though—aside from one 'are-you-barking'-look from Charlie towards the end of the meal and a knowing-grin from Sirius.

Dinner went by quickly due to the lack of people there, and Ron managed to slip upstairs unnoticed as the rest of them helped pack up their dinner plates and leftovers with Mrs. Weasley. They helped with whatever they could—or, rather, whatever they were required to help with—until Mrs. Weasley dismissed them and sent them on their way. Before they were given any time to notice, they were all trudging up the stairs and to Harry and Ron's room.

"He's barking! He's completely off his rocker, that's what he is!" Ron greeted them with practically shouting.

The twins pinned Ron down on his bed, covering his mouth so their mother couldn't hear.

"Shhh, you dolt!" Fred said.

"I didn't just risk bleeding to death so you could get us caught!" George whispered partially angry and partially nervous.

"Read this!" Ron sputtered through the twins' hand-gag.

The twins snatched the newspaper up from him and sat down on Harry's bed side by side. The rest of the group, piled onto the bed to read from whatever angles they could from behind the tall twins.

"Muggles?" they all whispered at some point or another.

Hermione, of all people, was he last to finish reading and picked it off of George when he was done.

"This is mental," Harry murmured.

"You're telling me!" Ron spat.

"Shhh," Hermione whispered half-heartedly.

They all mulled the information of Muggles joining them at Hogwarts over in their heads. It didn't quite want to sink in though. This didn't seem like something Dumbledore would do. It was too much of a risk having Muggles know about them, and against the law. Plus, how would they learn anything that could help them defend themselves against Voldemort or prepare them for the O.W.L.s if these Muggles couldn't teach them magic. Perhaps that was why Dumbledore had hired the third professor—Umbridge. Still it didn't settle well with them.

"Well…it's Dumbledore, right?" Hermione reasoned.

"I dunno, is it?" Fred asked.

"'Cause this sure doesn't sound like him," George finished.

"Maybe he's Impursed?" Ron suggested. "Yeah, maybe when the Death Eaters found out Dumbledore knew You-Know-Who came back they caught him off guard and put the Imperio curse on him."

"Ron, be reasonable," Hermione, said. "Dumbledore wouldn't be caught off guard while You-Know-Who is rising."

"What if it's a-a Polyjuice Potion?" Ron suggested.

"That doesn't change the fact he's Dumbledore, Ron. A person would have to be extremely clever and powerful to get him out of the way long enough to pull this off."

"Well, he's not exactly indestructible, Hermione. What if You-Know-Who is behind this? That would make sense. He's powerful _and _clever enough to pull this off. He probably has one of his Death Eaters sitting in Hogwarts pretending to be Dumbledore right now."

"I don't think it's an imposter," Harry quietly put in.

"But what if—"

"Ron, there are a _thousand_ this could be, but I don't think this a lie," Harry said. "Like Sirius said, 'we don't know what he would or wouldn't do.'"

"But Muggles _teaching _us at Hogwarts?" Ron demanded. "I'd understand if it was Muggle Studies, but in Defense Against the Dark Arts! That's barking."

"Well, don't forget about the third teacher. This Umbridge-lady is being really hyped up," Hermione pointed out. "Yet again, it's Ministry hype, so I wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't nearly good as she's been made out to be."

"Why're you three being so quiet?" asked Ron, noticing his remaining siblings in the room.

At first there wasn't a response, but soon enough Ginny stepped up and pointed to a name at the bottom of the page:

**In itself this is a tale worthy of even Harry Potter himself.**

**_Written by: Percy I. Weasley_**

They were all silent for a moment before Harry robotically sat himself down. Sure, he knew that Percy was pro-Ministry, but this was a personal blow for him—they had gone to school together, hadn't they? Did he really come off as that much of a nutter? Sure, Percy was his least favorite of all the Weasley's but was he really this low in Percy's opinion? Not that he really cared or anything, but it was just so…so final coming from a guy he'd known, and shared the Burrow with at some points and, heck, they'd even shared a tent during the Quidditch World Cup. Percy knew Harry wasn't a head-case. Didn't he?

"He never did know how to quit running his gob," said George tightly. "It's just a shame we never got to hack it off."

"Blimey, it's like the gits _trying_ to kick something off," Fred added.

"I'm completely miffed with the bloke."

"Harry, are you okay?" Hermione finally asked.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Peachy. You know, aside from the fact that everyone in the world thinks I'm a psychotic prat."

"We don't think that, mate," Ron said. "It's the Ministry that's lying."

"We know it's frustrating, Harry, we do," Hermione tried comforting.

"What would you know?" Harry busted out. "You're not waiting for a trial over expulsion! _You're _not being _ridiculed_ by most of the bloody world! _You _don't have a bloody _target_ plastered to you're forehead!"

"Harry," Ron said, looking ashamed as soon as his friend's furious gaze met his.

"WHAT!"

"You're not the only one going through this," he muttered.

"Then who else is, 'cause I'd _love_ having a bloody _chat_ with them!"

Ron mumbled something low and under his breath.

"WHO?"

"DUMBLEDORE, MATE!" Ron shouted back. "Dumbledore."

Harry was knocked off his rant-track for a second as he realized it was true. Everyone stood there standing agape for a moment wondering how Harry would respond next—at least until they heard Mrs. Weasley bustling up the stairs. The twins disapparated—most likely to their room—with two simultaneous _crack_s while Hermione stuffed the newspaper under the Harry's bed as fast as she could.

"What's all the racket up here?" Mrs. Weasley demanded in a way that was serious, motherly, and pure-Weasley.

Harry hadn't realized that at some point he had gotten up and had his hands balled into fists at his sides. He immediately forced his hands to unclench and his shoulders to slack. None of them answered.

"Alright, if nobody wants to answer then you might as well be off to bed," she said. "Girls, up to your room."

Hermione and Ginny prowled out the door and to their room, reluctant yet obedient to Mrs. Weasley's will.

"And you two," Mrs. Weasley said, addressing Ron and Harry, "no more shouting."

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><p><em>AN: There you go. Review if you wanna review. Paalam :) _


	10. Whatcha Gonna Do?

_A/N: Hej :) (Danish)_

_So, once again, I've been filled to the brim with test after test after test but whatever. Halloween was okay. Actually it was kinda boring 'cause none of my friends dressed up and my costume was a Dr. Seuss hat and a random black dot on my nose…pretty uneventful. _

Shadowess 88:_ I've been thinking about Sirius quite a bit too but have yet to have decided what I'll be doing with him. We'll cross that bridge when we get there. Glad you like Google translations too! There so much fun_

Illucida:_ Glad you like it so far and hope you enjoy what is to come. :)_

Suuki-Aldrea:_ I liked your idea, but I've already written a few chapter ahead so that prolly won't be going down. You do get to see a little of Umbridge's face soon though. _

Raven Aorla_: There will be plenty of Whinchesters between this and the next chapter (believe me there will be). _

INMH:_ LOL! See the thing is that most of my family/friends are scared of Supernatural (which is just plain sad). I literally have one cousin who used to watch it - actually she introduced me to the show - but she hasn't been for season 7 (*gasp*). As for Umbridge and the Winchesters…you'll just have to wait and see (P.S. I had a blast writing them together ;) _

_Big Thanks to Everyone That Reviewed, Subscribed, And is Following! I would hug you all if my computer wasn't in the way! :D_

_Disclaimer: The day that I own Supernatural and Harry Potter all at once, is the day I wake up in a mental hospital._

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><p><em>(The seventh of August) In the Winchester's room at The Leaky Cauldron… <em>

McGonagall had shown up just as she promised that day—cat suit and all. She'd even waited at the table they'd all met at two days previous. Sam had been the one to go out and meet her so that he could lead the witch to the booked room. He pushed the door open, which she took as an opportunity to slink around his tall legs and through the entrance.

"Hey, so quick question," Sam, said as he shut their room door. "What about Bobby and Cass? They're probably wondering where we are now."

"You'll have to speak with Professor Dumbledore about your personal affairs," said McGonagall calmly after growing to her full size. "As for today, we're going to have you situated with your basic teaching needs. I'm going to assume that you've decided on a teaching format, yes?"

The brothers shared a glance as if asking one another with their eyes if the other had an idea or not. Sam pursed his lips for a second and gave his brother a half-shrug. Dean immediately interpreted that as Sam-talk for 'I'll give it a shot.'"

"Sam had a few ideas," offered Dean.

"Would you mind elaborating?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, I figured that we would teach in a system. First, we'd start off with exercises, then move on to the day's lesson. Mondays we'll be teaching monsters and demons. The lessons will cover what they are and how to fight them. Tuesdays we'll cover occult objects and protection like how to make a proper pentagram and exorcisms. Wednesdays we'll do weapons training. That'll leave Thursdays for practice and Fridays for tests. But for the first couple of weeks I'd like to focus on getting them all into shape."

McGonagall looked at Sam quizzically as if trying to decipher what language he was speaking. "Have you done this before?"

"What?"

"Teach."

Sam shrugged and shook his head.

"Oh, well, your lesson plan sounded…professional."

Sam chuckled. "I went to a good school. One of my teacher's schedules went along similar guidelines, just different courses and no practice day."

"I was informed that your father taught you."

"Oh, he did," Sam explained. "He taught Dean and I everything we know about the supernatural, but we also went to normal schools for basic education. I actually went on to go to Stanford after high school."

McGonagall carefully analyzed the tall man standing mere feet away from her through her specs. "What is Stanford?"

Dean couldn't resist bursting the laugh in his throat at the obvious peg-down in Sam's self-esteem. "Yeah, what _is_ Stanford, Professor Winchester?"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam mumbled under his breath. "Stanford is a college. You know what a college is…right?"

"Oh," McGonagall said, as she nodded swiftly and continued, "and your lesson plans will not consist of any spells?"

Sam shook his head. "That'll be up to Ms. Umbridge."

McGonagall nodded once more. "As far as textbooks are concerned, will you be needing any?"

"No, I was thinking we'd just use our dad's hunting journal. The thing's practically our bible on the paranormal and should work just fine."

"But," Dean interrupted, "Dumbledore mentioned that your sorts have your own occult objects. We're gonna need the low-down on them."

McGonagall hesitated to try and piece together what had just been said to her. "I'm going to assume that by 'low-down' you mean information on what these objects may be, yes?"—Both of the brothers nodded—"Well in that case, I'm sure we can get a book on them in Flourish & Blotts."

"We're also gonna need enough weapons for the students. Sam and I only keep enough in our trunk for a few people."

"I'll mention this to Dumbledore. For now you should probably make a list of the things you're going to need."

"Alright then," Sam said promptly. "Have any paper?"

"_Accio_ parchment," McGonagall said flourishing her wand. At first the nothing happened, but both boys jumped back and reached for their guns when a few slips of yellowing paper slipped under the door and into McGonagall's hands. She handed them to Sam before adding, "_Accio_ quill."

"What did you just do?" Sam asked wide-eyed, as an elegant feather followed in though the bottom crack in the door.

"That, Mr. Winchester, was a summoning charm," McGonagall explained, passing the quill to Dean. "In the wizarding world, witches and wizards use spells, curses, charms, hexes, and jinxes. They're usually only a word or two with distinct Latin roots, although the ancient, more complex ones could take much longer to finish. Then there are verbal and non-verbal spells, which are self-explanatory."

"Care to take notes, Professor Sammy?" Dean asked as he brushed the feather against his brother's arm. Sam looked at the fluffy, medieval pen for a moment before taking it from his brother. "Of all things, why would you go with _quills_?"

"Well what would you suggest we use, Mr. Winchester?"

"Uh, I don't know, _pens_?"

"Many quill pens are feathers taken from magical creatures to enhance one's writing, or perform a magical tasks, such as writing without the support of a hand."

Sam looked at the quill in his hand incredulously. "Does this one do that?"

McGonagall shook her head and said, "No, that one is a self-inking quill. You don't need to dip it into ink every time you need to write something down, making it very similar to a Muggle pen. It's very handy. I tend to keep one in my classroom."

"Okay, so do you have any suggestions for things that most teachers have?" Sam asked, taking a seat in the room's chair and putting the paper on the desk.

When he looked over his shoulder, McGonagall started speaking, "Well, to start, you're going to need some basic robes—."

"Wait," Dean interrupted, "you want us to wear those ridiculous _dresses_?"

McGonagall's lips tightened, either holding back frustration or burying a smile, before she continued, "_Yes_, it is fitting that Hogwarts _professors_ follow the dress code of the school. Now, of course, professors have more range in deciding what types of robes they prefer wearing whereas students must conform to the student dress code, being black work robes and a winter cloak. Most robes are made of cotton, silk and other soft materials, but some come more sturdy and are made or dragon hide or leather. In fact, our gamekeeper Rubeus Hagrid generally wears leather robes."

Dean opened his mouth to continue his protest but Sam spoke first saying, "Okay, robes. What else?"

"You may bring parchment and envelops, but those can usually be found around the school if you decide against them. Quills and ink are helpful. Professors all have wands, but, with your administration, it won't seem necessary. Hogwarts is home to at least one Squib, so you won't be the only ones there who can't perform magic."

"Hey, um, quick question, "Sam started, as he finished off scribbling down the current list, "what's a Squib?"

"A Squib who is a person born to a wizarding family that has such a low level of magical power that he or she is incapable of performing magic. It is a very rare occurrence for this to happen, but we do have a Squib currently in Hogwarts. He is the caretaker, Argus Filch."

"How does that happen?" Sam asked, turning his head to face the witch.

"No one really knows. Magic is generally passed down through the genes with the acceptation of Muggle-borns."

"Which is?" Dean prodded.

"I was getting to that. A Muggle-born is a witch or wizard born to a non-magic family, " McGonagall stated. She continued listing necessary things that they should buy while in Diagon Alley at a reasonable pace for Sam's writing to keep up with, only to be interrupted every so often with a question, comment, or concern. "…And then there are brooms, which most likely will be unnecessary seeing as professors don't generally play Quidditch."

"Quidditch?" Sam inquired.

"What the hell's that?" Dean followed up.

"Quidditch is a wizarding sport played on broomsticks—"

"Hold on, hold on. You guys fly around on _broomsticks_?" Dean asked, with skeptical eyebrows raised. "You've gotta be joking."

"No, Mr. Winchester, I'm not," McGonagall said sternly, obviously not taking the interruption kindly. "Quidditch is a time-honored tradition of the wizarding world. In it, there are two teams of seven players—one Keeper, one Seeker, two Beaters, and three Chasers. It is the Keeper's job to defend the goals on their side of the pitch. The Beaters defend players from the Bludger, which is an enchanted ball charmed to chase players and try to knock them from their brooms—."

"You let _children_ do that?" Sam asked incredulously. "That's insane!"

"We don't send Beaters out defenseless; they're given bats."

"Oh, well in _that_ case," Dean added sarcastically.

"Yes, well," McGonagall started again. "Where was I? Oh, yes. Chasers are the ones who have to score the Quaffle into hoops on the other team's goals. And lastly, the Seeker has the job of trying to catch the Golden Snitch, a tiny, golden ball that sprouts wings and flies about the Quidditch field during the match. The team who's Seeker catches the Snitch gains 150 points and usually wins the match."

Sam and Dean shared a skeptical look with each other, not completely sure how to process this information. When Dean finally spoke up, he sarcastically sniped, "And your people think _we're_ unfit to teach? _Really_?"

"Yes, well while it may sound fanatical to those newly introduced to the Wizard World, it is an accepted sport in society and culture to us residing here. Once you have seen it being played, you might come to understand more," said McGonagall promptly. "Now if that is it, we may begin gathering the items on your list, yes?"

Dean shrugged and nodded. "Any more questions, Sam?"—Sam frowned and shook is head—"Alright, then let's go."

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><p><em>AN: Yeah, yeah I know, really short chapter. The next one's super long though so chill-ax. If you wanna review then do so. Farvel! _


	11. Gotta Get Back to Diagon Alley

_A/N: Buenos Dias :) (That one was from memory…that means I prolly spelled it wrong)_

_Not much happening on this side of the computer. I got a lot of days off this week so expect a new chappie quick. The last episode of Supernatural was kinda skimpy but the next one looks really good (you should have seen my face when Sam said he was getting married XD I actually slapped myself in the face unintentionally and needed to sit myself off to the side so that I could fangirl squeal without scaring my mom…It was really funny). Yeah, that's about it. _

Illucida:_ Thanks. I hope you like this._

Lieutenant Winter:_ First off, you have a boss username. Second off, I'm glad I converted you to liking this story :) Thirdly, nope, they don't get to Hogwarts for a few more chapters._

INMH:_ No, sadly she has not watched the premiere (as far as I know at least). There's only a little taste test of Umbridge here but there will be more in the future so you better start making that popcorn now. :)_

Greeniron: _Bobby and Cas are coming very very soon. So soon that I had to write 'very' twice._

Raven Aorla: _Whoops, didn't even see that. I'm glad you're enjoying their reactions._

Nouri:_ Dean in leather robe…not quite yet but you've got the right idea._

Suuki-Aldrea: _Muggle world weapons aren't quite here yet but they will be…trust me, they will be. As for Umbridge, there's more fun with the three of them in the future ;) _

Shadowess 88:_ You're review had me cracking up! Believe me, I have no intention of rushing anything. _

Big thank-you goes to everyone who reviewed, story-alerted, or favorited. I'm giving you virtual hugs right now.

_Disclaimer: In case anyone's unclear about this, I still don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter. I mean, I wish I did, but I don't. Like, I really, really wish I did, but I still don't. I could though, if I'd been bron as Erik Kripke or J.K. Rowling, but that didn't happen. *Sigh* _

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><p><em>(The Seventh of August) continued…<em>

Sam pushed out his chair and stood up, making sure to grab his and his brother's bags of wizard coins and the list they had just made before trailing out of the room with his brother and the witch. McGonagall brought them back down the stairs and to that little room where she once again performed her disappearing-wall routine as she had previously. Soon enough, they had re-entered Diagon Alley, and this time they were prepared.

"Could you read back that list, Mr. Winchester?" McGonagall asked curtly.

"It's Sam," he corrected before reading off everything he'd scratched down during their previous conversation.

McGonagall nodded once Sam had finished speaking and said, "We'll start at the cauldron shop. It's the nearest to where we are."

Dean shrugged and Sam nodded right before following McGonagall into a nearby shop. The cauldrons sloppily stacked on one another behind the clear glass window easily gave away the store's purpose. They walked in, jangling the floating security bell on the door while doing so.

"How may I help you, Professor?" a short, thin, man asked, pushing past whatever kids and parents were in his way.

"I'm going to need two pewter cauldrons, Mr. Arkwright."

"Yes, yes, right away," the man squeaked shuffling around the shop. "Do you need anything else, Ma'am? We're having a sale on collapsible cauldrons. 20% off."

"No, two pewter cauldrons will be fine," McGonagall repeated. The witch noticed a suspicious glance shared between the new professors and quietly told them, "I used to teach Mr. Arkwright when he went to Hogwarts. He was quite the eager Hufflepuff, but always a bit fidgety."

"What the _hell_ is a Hufflepuff?" Dean questioned back curtly.

McGonagall's lips tightened either trying to conceal how much she deplored Dean's choice in language or hiding a smile. "There are four Houses at Hogwarts," she explained. "Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—I happen to be the Head of the Gryffindor House. At the beginning of each year, when new students arrive, they are sorted into a house by the Sorting Hat."

"The Sor—."

Cutting off Dean's interruption, McGonagall continued, "The Sorting Hat was the hat of Godric Gryffindor, one of the four founders of Hogwarts. He enchanted it to place students into houses accordingly. Gryffindors are known for their bravery, Ravenclaws are known their intelligence, Hufflepuffs are known for their loyalty, and Slytherins are known for their cunning. At the end of each year, the house who earned the most points wins the House Cup."

"And how do students earn points?" asked Sam.

"They are rewarded points by professors. When a student answers a question correctly or follows an order, professors are permitted to give them points—usually around five or ten. If a student misbehaves, then a professor may dock points accordingly."

"So we can do that?"

"As professors, yes, you may do that."

"Are you sure this is all you'll be needing?" Mr. Arkwright asked returned with the specified cauldrons.

"Yes, it is. Thank you."

Mr. Arkwright nodded nervously and said, "Right this way then" as he led them to the counter. "That'll be twenty galleons"—McGonagall raised an eyebrow—"but as a special professor discount I'll give them to you for, lets say, fifteen apiece?"

McGonagall nodded and signaled for the taller men to pay. Sam passed Dean the money pouch and dug into his own until he found the right amount. As he put the coins onto the counter, he met Mr. Arkwright's suddenly frightened gaze. Sam peeked over his shoulder to make sure the shopkeeper wasn't looking at anyone else—which he wasn't. He scrunched his eyebrows close, "Hi?"

"Who are you?" Mr. Arkwright demanded confused.

"They're new professors, Mr. Arkwright," McGonagall said hastily, not allowing Sam or Dean to speak. She turned around and ushered them out, as Sam and Dean took their cauldrons, "Have a good day."

"So what? Muggles are the nigger of the world?"

"_Excuse_ me?" McGonagall gasped, obviously not familiar with Dean's song reference.

"Oh, come on," Dean said. "You've gotta know Lennon. I mean, sure that was some of his later work, but still, it's _Lennon_."

"Dean has a…vast knowledge of references—songs, movies, you name it," Sam explained to the shocked elderly witch. Sam sighed, "This is one of them."

McGonagall eyed the pair before curtly saying, "Charming. We're going The Menagerie of Magical Instruments next. Follow along now."

McGonagall led them through the filled and loud street of Diagon Alley as she had done a few days before, only this time she and the newest additions to the staff were much more prepared in what they were there for. Passing Eeylops Owl Emporium, the trio turned left and entered a shop labeled The Menagerie of Magical Instruments. As the door jangled open, Sam and Dean were shocked by the general light attitude of a store with so much dark magic. Each of the shelves seemed dedicated to one magical item each—for example one holding whistling gyroscopes, another with vibrating TV antennas, and a third filled with glass marbles filled with what looked like white smoke.

"May I see the list, Mr. Winchester?" McGonagall asked, diverting both Winchester's attention back to her.

As Sam handed her the sheets, once again he said, "You can just call me Sam. It'll get too confusing calling us both 'Mr. Winchester'."

Dean mumbled something about it being "weird" under his breath so McGonagall couldn't hear, though he did momentarily receive a jab of a glare from his brother. McGonagall either didn't notice either or didn't care as she quickly read the list to herself.

"Okay, now, Dean I'd like you to get two of those telescope-like items from over there," McGonagall said, pointing to a corner of the shop fully stocked with golden telescopes. Dean nodded and retrieved the items. "Very good. Those are called Lunascopes. They are used to see different moon phases.

"Sam, if you could get two of those marbles and two of the spinning objects next to them…thank you," the witch continued. "The marbles are called Remembralls and the spinning items are known as Sneakoscopes. Now if one of you could grab two of each type of amulet while the other grabs two of those mirrors…"

Shopping in there continued on like that until they had basically two of everything in the store. They soon discovered that their cauldrons somehow managed to fit everything that they were holding inside of them. When Sam asked how they did that, McGonagall smiled and simply said, "Magic."

"Very well then," the professor said. "Lets go pay now."

Sam and Dean went to the counter and paid for the supplies before leaving the shop and following McGonagall across the bustling street. Pushing open the door to Scribbulus Evercchanging Inks, McGonagall said, "Next we'll be getting some stationary supplies. Come on then."

They entered the shop, and were surprised by how neat everything was in comparison to the place they'd last been in. It gave off the vibe that everything in there had its place and nothing was to be disturbed if it wasn't being bought or having a price negotiated over it. Ink—colored, invisible, changing, black, you name it—sat within the clear wells on shelves.

"Pick out two or three quills, some black inkwells, and a package of parchment," McGonagall instructed. "If you need more over the course of the year, the school will supply it."

"Right," they mumbled as the pair headed off to gather the necessary supplies. They each took two basic quills, a self-inking quill—Sam's being of an eagle feather and Dean's of a peasant feather—several bottles of black ink, and the parchment before heading up to the counter to pay. They quickly handed the cashier the required amount and followed McGonagall out of the store.

"Next is Flourish & Blotts," the witch said, bringing them into the familiar store next door. McGonagall headed up to the counter and asked an employee for his assistance in finding some books. As he came around, McGonagall explained, "We'll be needing some books on magical equipment, and creatures of the wizarding world if you don't mind."

"Follow me," he said, leading them through the shelves. "For creatures of the wizarding world, you will probably want to go with Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them."—He picked off two copies of the said book from the shelf and lead them further back. —"And for magical equipment you should use this"—he leapt up a bit to snatch two copies of yet another book—"Magical Devices and Items by Geoffrey Spitzer. Anything else?"

Sam and Dean took a copy of each book from the employee as McGonagall said, "Yes. We'll be needing a grading book and a lesson planner."

"Very well," he said. "Those are in storage so if you'll just excuse me for a moment."

"Of course," she said as he left to the back and disappeared past a door. The witch turned to the men and promptly said, "All professors keep a lesson planning book to map out the lessons they will be teaching over the course of the year and a grading book that updates each students grade depending on how they do on tests and in class."

"Handy," Dan commented.

"Quite," McGonagall agreed as the employee returned with the books. He handed them over to the new professors and led them to the counter.

"That'll be thirty Galleons and five Sickles each. Would you like to purchase a copy of A Full Guide to Dragons by Newt Scamander? They are discounted to anyone who purchases Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them."

They both declined the offer of the book with a stereotypical dragon on the cover sitting proudly on display as they each handed the money over to the cashier, and put the books into their cauldrons—which surprisingly, didn't weigh too much. The brothers figured that if they were to ask why that was, the witch would simply say "magic" as she had before.

"Where to next?" Sam asked.

"Right next door," McGonagall replied, "to get your robes."

Dean mentally groaned, using every ounce of willpower in him to keep from verbalizing his aversion to the thought of wearing the fancy bed sheets that were supposedly "dress code of the school". McGonagall lead them to some Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions next door in that expeditious manner that was pungent in her personality. Sam was the one who ended up with the task of holding the door until his brother and their designated tour guide entered the store. Seeing a short lady with a hag-like face nearing her exit though the door, Sam—being a good citizen—decided to stay back and hold it open for her.

"Thank you once more for the cardigan, Madame. The shade of pink is just perfect," she squealed over her shoulder in a manner nearly as prompt as McGonagall before exiting the shop.

A large female shopkeeper wearing an apron over her green stripped dress called back, "Please, don't mention it Miss…"

"Umbridge," the short lady replied in a rather uptight voice, followed by a little _humph_.

"Right. Have a good day Miss. Umbridge," the shopkeeper said needlessly seeing as "Miss. Umbridge" had already gone. The woman—who Sam assumed was Madame Malkin—sighed before noticing her next customers. She pinched the bridge of her nose and pointed to Dean, "I may have something to fit you, but you"—she pointed to Sam—"are going to need to wait a day or two until I can fix something up for your…measurements."

Dean snorted something along the lines of "sasquatch" through a chortle and a wide grin. Sam rolled his eyes at his childish older brother, leaving him once again to silently question how the pair of them was actually related, let alone brothers.

Madame Malkin extracted her wand from a pocket stitched onto her apron and murmured enough incantations to send a piece of parchment, a quill, and a tape measure over to Sam. The tape measure began wrapping itself around him to begin taking every form of Sam's measurements possible while the quill acted as a scribe and recorded all the numbers on the floating page.

As Dean poorly tried to conceal his amusement at his brother's obvious discomfort, Madame Malkin tugged on his sleeve and said, "Come along now."

He raised his eyebrows suspiciously before following her in queue. She brought him into a room where the robes were sorted in different areas of the room on floating hangers based on color and material—though a large majority was black and cotton.

"Did you have anything in mind then?" Malkin inquired, as she charmed another tape measure to measure Dean.

Flinching at the object charmed to run around him, Dean asked, "What's…normal?"

Madame Malkin eyed him curiously for a moment before asking what he would be wearing it for. "See," she continued to explain, "you can either be wearing work robes—which is usually what students wear at Hogwarts—or you can get dress robes—which are more for special occasions and balls. Then there are more expensive day robes, which come in a multitude of fabrics, colors, and prices. Anything catching your fancy?"

Dean's mouth hung slightly agape as he looked around the room for the answer, stiffly asking, "Could I just get two pairs in black?"

"Of course," Madame Malkin said, rolling onto her tiptoes to snatch the measuring tape from above Dean's shoulder. "What color lining would you like? There's scarlet, silver, blue, emerald, yellow, bronze, black, and gold."

Dean sighed, "Just black."

"Very well," she said, pointing her wand and saying, "Accio."

Several tall robes floated down from a corner clotted with black robes and over to Dean. After being instructed to try them on, he reluctantly shrugged off his dad's old leather jacket and pulled the first robe on. It took him five tries in different robes before he found one that fit him nearly perfectly.

"I just need to hem the sleeves now," she muttered as she flicked her wand a few more times until the proper adjustments were in place. "There you go. Now if you'll just wait by the counter, I'll be right back. I need to duplicate this and we'll be all set."

"Yeah," Dean replied indifferently, walking back to the front room as he pulled his jacket back on. He gave a tight-lipped smile, and quickly raised and dropped his eyebrows to his brother. Sam shrugged in response, knowing that look meant Dean was reluctant towards the dressing choice. Sam made a note in the back of his mind to try to worm Dean and himself through a loophole in the dress code policy.

Madame Malkin soon returned with the robes Dean had been fitted for. They traded items for currency quickly—seeing as Dean was getting the hang of the coin based economic standards.

As Dean was shoving the neatly folded robes into his cauldron, Madame Malkin turned to Sam and said, "I'll have some robes prepared for your size in two days. The lining will have to be black seeing as I haven't ordered the fabric long enough in other colors. Unless you'd like to wait for me to have it ordered, in which case they may take a week or two."

"No," Sam said, shaking his head, "blacks fine."

"Well then if that's all, we should be on our way," McGonagall said. "Goodbye Madame Malkin."

"Goodbye, dearies."

The trio left the store and followed McGonagall far down the street, past Gringotts and several other nooks and crannies of Diagon Alley.

"The woman who was leaving the store before, was she the other professor? Umbridge?" Sam asked, remembering the hag-faced woman with a bitter candy voice.

"Is that what she said her name was? I didn't quite catch it back there," McGonagall said, raising her eyebrows. "Well, yes then. That was probably her. I have never actually met her personally though I have heard about her."

"What'd you hear?" Dean asked.

Deciding that the Winchesters were loyal enough to Hogwarts over the Ministry, McGonagall disclosed, "She is known to be very pro-Ministry based in her beliefs. She seems to be under the impression that whatever the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, says is the infallible truth. Dumbledore believes that she was chosen as a professor because of this, and that she will be monitoring the school for any—how they say—'chinks in the armor'."

"So she's a spy?" Sam asked.

Dean rolled his eyes, saying, "Of course she's a spy, Sam. What part of that managed to fly over that six foot four, Stanford head of yours?"

"Just clarifying," Sam said unfazed.

"So where are we going anyways?" Dean asked, diverting his attention to the witch who seemed to know her way around.

Making a left, McGonagall reached and opened a door, with a response of, "The junk shop for some cheap trunks."

And what a junk shop it was—what with the random books stacked and strewn about, cracked marbles on the floor with white vapors seeping out, a variety of clothing articles hanging upon random edges or shelves, and a fine layer of dust blanketing everything. Sam held back a sneeze as McGonagall requested an employee to find her two decent trunks. He returned within a matter of minutes with two plain brown trunks with faded gold latches, which were probably the only properly functioning items residing within the confides of the store. They haggled the price down to about ten galleons and five sickles apiece. Both Winchesters knelt in front of their trucks and stuffed the cauldrons they'd been carrying inside. After propping their trunks length-wise and grabbing the leather straps on the top ends, the pair started to follow onwards after McGonagall.

"Allow me," McGonagall said peering over her shoulder to the new professors. She whisked her wand "_Mobiliarbus_."

The spell breezed past both boys and lifted their trunks a few inches off the tattered wood floor.

"Whoa," Sam said, backing away from the levitated objects.

"Look, you're gonna have to give us a little warning when you do that," Dean asserted agitatedly, as he removed his hand from the nearest weapon that he had made a grab for on his person.

The witch gazed at him like a hawk for another second or so before nodding and leading them back to The Leakey Cauldron. It was an uneventful walk back with barely any words shared while the trunks followed them floating a few inches from the ground, as they had been enchanted to do. It was as if they all suddenly had nothing left to talk about.

"So, uh," Dean tried to start again, "anyone know any good jokes?"

Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes as McGonagall continued on in her brisk pace, barely noticing the elder Winchester's remark.

"Okay…I'll take that as a 'no'," Dean muttered. "Sour grapes."

McGonagall dropped them off like toddlers to preschool the moment they reached The Leakey Cauldron. She bode them a formal farewell and told them that if they wanted to get back into Diagon Alley just to ask the owner of the place, Tom, to let them through—he had apparently been made aware of their Muggle status but was trustworthy enough to not let it slip to the Ministry nor _The Daily Prophet_. The Sam and Dean gave her a curt "goodbye" and a short wave—the wave made by Dean's hand and the "goodbye" uttered from Sam's mouth.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said, as he locked the door behind him and fixed up the salt lines.

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam said in a questioning tone, as he dragged the trunks over to a corner of the room.

"Happy Monday."

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><p><em>AN: And there you go. I hope you liked my little A Very Potter Musical reference (I couldn't resist such a perfect opportunity). I know, I know, you were looking forward to a huge Umbridge confrontation, but that doesn't happen for a while…sort of. But at least now you know the origins of the pink cardigan. Review if you wanna review. Adios. _


	12. When In Knockturn Alley

_A/N: Alo :) (Romainian) _

_Okay, so my laptops being weird and I'm uploading this from my house computer (which I pretty much never use). I've got so many tests to take that it deserves a :( face. Tomorrow I've got a science test that both me and my teacher have been putting off for a while and the next day I've got another science test and a spanish test. But the good news is no school on Friday (which means I'll spend the entire day staring impaciently at my TV waiting for the new Supernatural ep...Jk...but not). And I had a math test yesterday that I'm pretty sure I bombed. Grrr._

MegTimeLord32998: _Whoops, I forgot to mention you last time. Believe me, you'll love my Winchesters vs. Umbridge scenes (the first ones in about three chaps)_

Raven Aorla:_ I didn't even notice that. Be paciente._

INMH:_ I know right! Keep your popcorn at the ready. _

Suuki-Aldrea: _Thx. _

Illucida:_ Glad for the honesty. Hope this is more exciting._

Shadowess 88: _No cell phone reception in the wizarding world (I just heard about 1000 teenagers say "Gasp! But how will they survive?") As for the rest of your questions, you'll have to wait and see. _

_Oh and before you pelt me with small objects, I feel I must tell you: CAS IS IN THE NEXT CHAPPIE! (I've been waiting so long to say that) So is Bobby, but no one ever seems to ask about him..._

Once again , thanks to everyone who Reviewed, Favorited, or Story Alerted! This week, you get virtual high-fives!

Disclaimer: There once lived a girl who did NOT own Harry Potter or Supernatural...That girl was me.

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><p><em>(The Fourteenth of August) Around dinner time… <em>

It had been a week since they'd last heard from McGonagall, though Remus had stopped to check on the two new black sheep of the wizarding world a few times. Two days previous, the werewolf had come to them with the news that Harry Potter had all his charges dropped and had managed to surpass expulsion thanks to Dumbledore. They were both surprised to hear that he hadn't been sent off to wizard jail—or as Dumbledore had called it "Azkaban". They had been sure that with such a perfect circumstance for prosecuting the kid, the Ministry would have jumped at the chance—apparently not. Yet again, they'd had more than their own fair shares of run-ins with the law that they'd managed to slip out of. Maybe they shouldn't have been so surprised.

Their internal clocks had finally settled in with the extreme time difference, and they were getting the most hours of sleep at that they'd had in months, or possibly years—sometimes even getting a full seven or eight hours per night. It was nothing short of a miracle if they'd ever seen one, let alone experienced. The dark semi-circles under their eyes had started to clear up, giving them a 'we're-at-the-top-of-our-game' kind of look.

Sam had headed to Madame Malkin's a few days ago to collect his newly made robes. They ended up fitting him perfectly as Madame Malkin had told him she had predicted before taking his money and sending him off. Sam would have gone down Knockturn Alley had Remus not seen and stopped him from getting himself lost.

Dean had sent his hawk on his first trip to America with a letter to Bobby. In it, Dean explained that he and Sam were going to be working one hell of a long gig but promised to keep in contact. Dean thought it would be better, not only for cash, but also to keep Sam from any contact with Ruby. If Bobby wanted to write back, all he'd have to do was write the letter and give it to Zimmerman, who would know exactly where he was. In a postscript, he had also mentioned to tell Cas that he said "hi".

Sam and Dean sat at their usual booth and ordered their usual dinner meals—Dean's appetite yearning for a hearty double cheeseburger, fries and pie while Sam ordered a spinach casserole with a side of carrots. Within a matter of minutes, their food was floating its way towards them alongside the Butterbeers they'd both requested.

Dean sighed as he picked up his Butterbeer and uncapped it. "Remind me to stow some _real_ beers before we hit the school."

Dean picked up his fork and felt something brush past his leg. Had the cat next to him not transformed into McGonagall, Dean would have probably stabbed her with the fork—even under these circumstances, Dean nearly jabbed her with it.

"Hello, Dean. Sam," McGonagall said simply.

"Nice of you to…"—Dean looked at her like she was crazy—"pop in."

"Yes, well we need to talk."

"I don't suppose you'll ever just stop by to say 'howdy' every once in a while," Dean commented.

"Right now, there are many things to be taken care of, one of them being supplies that your students will be needing."

Dean looked to Sam, knowing that his brother could wing this better than he could. Sam sighed and turned his eyes from Dean to McGonagall. "I dunno… sweatpants…T-shirts… sneakers…" Sam slowly rattled off by the time McGonagall had retrieved her quill and some parchment. Sam looked to Dean for reassurance and received a quick nod of the head. "Maybe a notebook?"

"Is that all?" McGonagall asked crisply, glancing up. Sam shrugged and nodded. "Very well. I'll be back here on September 1—that's two weeks from this Friday. Okay?"

Sam and Dean nodded, but Sam asked, "What if we have any…trouble with"—Sam signaled to all the witches and wizards cramping up the space—"and need some back up?"

"What am I?" Dean questioned his brother in a mock defensive tone. "Chop liver?"

"You can just contact Remus, who I'm aware you've became well acquainted with. Anything else?" she inquired. Sam squinted his eyes and tilted his head slightly wondering how she could have possibly known that they knew Remus. As they shook their heads, she said, "Okay. Good bye for now."

The witch disappeared with a loud _crack_ making both Winchesters flinch as if they'd just been shot at. _That_ method of transportation was going to take some getting used to.

"Damned witches," growled Dean bitterly right before forking a large bite of pie into his mouth.

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><p><em>(The Nineteenth of August) Early morning… <em>

Sam had left their room early that day. He took notice that whenever he or his brother left The Leakey Cauldron, Remus Lupin was suddenly there. He was tailing them. Sam had come to realize that Remus coincidently being on the same street as he had been when he'd nearly roamed down Knockturn Alley had probably not been a coincidence at all. He must have been working under the eye of a higher power, one that McGonagall also knew of. Hell, the day that they _met _was probably pre-planned. Naturally, Sam's curiosity hungered for a reason as to why Remus had kept him from going down there. That very same curiosity planned out his day for him seeing as he was going to check out the mysterious street.

The previous day, Sam had run a little experiment where he woke up at around five a.m. and roamed the border of The Leakey Cauldron, waiting for his first whiff of the werewolf. It took him three hours before he had seen a glimpse of the thinning brown hair, but that was all he needed. Eight o' clock was when Remus's shift began. Now Sam just had to hope that he stuck to the same routine daily.

Sam glanced at his watch. 7:14. He had plenty of time…. hopefully. He walked down the practically empty road of Diagon Alley with his eyes peeled for a sign pointing him to the mysterious block. Most of the shops were just opening and had sleepy workers assembling at the doors, inserting the keys. The same would probably be true when he reached the stores down the turnoff point. He put his hand inconspicuously onto the gun in his jacket pocket before heading down the narrow stairwell. He passed a lady who seemed to be sobbing and begging the wall for something, a man in a long dark overcoat shifting nervously from foot to foot holding what looked to be a yellow tricycle bell, and several other odd locals before his feet tapped against the last faded-grey stone stair.

The street was sort of like Diagon Alley except it had a darker presence that made it feel like he was in a dungeon, not an open street. He continued forwards anyway, peeking over his shoulders to make sure no one was following him. The whole scene around him was dodgy so his senses kept him on red alert. Some street venders were hollering for everyone within hearing distance to buy shrunken heads, giant spiders, and poisonous candles, whatever those were. Hurrying past them, Sam dodged into the nearest stores, some Borgin & Burkes.

Sam's first impression of the shop was that it was some evil cellar of eternal doom, depression, and dust; the shelves and books were dusty and dark while the air was dank and chilly as if it was filled with multiple ghostly presences—in fact, if Sam had brought his EMF detector with him, it probably would have lit up like a Christmas tree. There weren't many customers—only one or two sleazy fellows that looked like they needed to be somewhere else very soon. A scrawny, oily looking man sat behind a black walnut-wood counter, hunched over as he scribbled something down onto a sheet of dull yellow parchment.

"What do you want?" the man growled, not taking his eyes from the paper.

Sam stepped further into the building, and unsurely said, "Uh, just looking."

After receiving no acknowledgement for the sentence, Sam started to roam about. Some evil-looking masks hung on the upper-perimeter of one of the shelves, obviously right at home there. One of the shelves at Sam's eye-level held skulls, bones, and fingernails—it didn't take a genius to realize that they had all been parts of humans once upon a time. As Sam backed up from that shelf, his head bumped into some rusty, spiked instruments hanging from the ceiling—probably by magic seeing as there were no visible strings or ropes to hold them.

"Are you looking for something?" the oily man demanded, frustrated that Sam had distracted him from what he had been writing.

Sam looked at him with his eyes wide and started saying, "Uh—"

"Because if you're not, you can get out of my store," the man bluntly interrupted.

"Okay, look," Sam started off quickly, "I need something that can…contact anyone anywhere without anyone but the person I'm talking with knowing. Would you know anyone who sells something like that?"

Okay, so maybe Sam had come to the store with something along those lines jotted down in his head. So he had a little agenda. His little expedition would have been completely useless if it wasn't guided by a bigger purpose. He would have to contact the outside world somehow—especially if his phone didn't work within magical boundaries.

That seemed to catch the man's attention seeing as he actually donated a moment's worth of glance to Sam. "I may have something."  
>He got up and brought Sam over to the other side of the store that only had a single, fading light bulb to light it up. Their feet hit the floor in unison until they both stopped in front of a desk. On it sat a small sheet of dark yellow parchment and a black quill with a sharp tip.<p>

The shopkeeper looked down at it while he explained, "All you'd have to do would be write down the name of the person you're looking to contact and the message. They'll get it."

"Sounds perfect," Sam said, almost impressed. "What's the catch?"

"You can only use it once," he said. "And it's one hundred galleons."

Sam nodded to himself. "I'm going to guess you bought it for around…thirty galleons, yes?"

Holding his poker face, the shopkeeper shook his head, "No. I bought it for ninety."

"You're lying," said Sam, sure of himself and suddenly glad that he was trained to be a professional liar and could therefore stop a bluff when he heard one. "I'll give you thirty-five."

"This is a rare piece of magic. If you think I'm going to give it to you for thirty-five—"

"Forty or I walk."

The shopkeeper glared at Sam. "Forty-five."

"Fine." Sam rounded up enough of the coins necessary from the coin pouch and paid the man. "What's your name anyway?"

"Just call me Mr. Borgin," he said letting the words slither off his tongue. "And you are?"

"Sam," he said, purposely keeping his last name to himself just in case the man had heard of him from the article a few weeks back. As Mr. Borgin opened his mouth to request a last surname, Sam quickly pointed to a large black cabinet with double doors asked, "So what's that?"

"What? That?" Mr. Borgin asked looking to the same object. A bell rang as three people entered the store. "That's a Vanishing Cabinet. It's sister cabinet was last seen in Hogwarts, though that was years ago. By now, who knows where the thing really went."

"Right," Sam said, taking the items he'd just purchased.

"Borgin," a man behind the duo hissed slowly, "we need to talk."

Both Sam and the sleazy merchant looked up at the person who had spoken—Sam looking curious and Borgin looking slightly frightened. He was dressed elegantly in costly black robes, which draped around him like a cape of night. His long silvery-blond hair contrasted greatly with the robes, as did his icy blue-grey eyes that were currently slanted inwards like a snake at the ready to strike. Just upon first glance one could tell that he was the type of man who would kill if you so much as accidently stepped on his recently polished shoes. Behind him stood a woman inches shorter than him, in equally dark robes, and near-the-same pale-blond hair. She protectively held the shoulder of a boy that Sam could easily tell was their son—what with the matching platinum blond hair, slender form, and cold grey eyes.

"Mr. Malfoy, it's good to see you," he said walking over to him hastily and putting his other costumer on the backburner.

The pair began discussing something of shared importance, so Sam decided that it would be a good time to head out. He took one last look and the platinum blond haired family wrapped in conversation with Mr. Borgin before exiting the store. He sat himself down on a bench right outside the shop and stared at the paper and quill he'd just bought, wondering how to phrase his message. He only had one shot to get this right, and he really didn't want to screw it up. He took a breath and stared at the paper before slowly writing:

_Ruby,_

_I'm in London in some wizarding world. The street's called Knockturn Alley. Find it. We need to talk._

_-Sam_

He watched as his message slowly dissolved into the paper and disappeared before his eyes. Sure, Sam had seen weirder things than that, —like killer clowns for example—but he hadn't been expecting it. He sat there waiting for something else to happen for a while—he must have checked his watch at least seven times. It was just when he was about to leave when the blond boy from inside Borgin & Burkes walked out of the shop and over to him.

"A lady inside there wants to talk with you," he said, not looking at Sam directly. "Said to tell you her name was Ruby."

Sam's eyes perked in interest as he heard his demon friend's name. "Alright. Thank you."

The boy wore an expression of distaste as if he'd just had a sour lemon forcefully shoved down his throat. Sam ignored it though as he and the boy walked back into the shop. Sure enough, there stood Ruby in her black leather jacket and her 'I-can-kick-your-ass' expression. She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her hip to the side.

"You called," she said, agitatedly.

"We need to talk," he said grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the door. "In private."

Ruby pulled her arm back, stopping Sam's stride. Sam gave her a questioning look and edged his head forward a little bit. "Well this'll have to do," she said pulling him towards the back corner with the black cabinet. "I can't leave here. There's too many enchantments outside of these grounds—salt embedded in the street, ancient warding spells, the works. This store is sort of a…safe zone, for demons."

"You knew about this place?"

She pushed one of her sleeves up and exposed her inner wrist, which had the message Sam had written to her engraved on her skin as if it where a tattoo. "Neat trick by the way. I just had to contact a…acquaintance of mine and I had a ticket in."

Sam looked at the tattoo incredulously, and wore and expression that asked 'Did-I-do-that?' "Will it fade?"

"Eventually. Do you wanna tell me what you got yourself mixed up in, or should I start guessing?"

"Dean and I got a job at some wizard school called Hogwarts," Sam started explaining under his breath. "We're supposed to train the students to be like us—like Hunters."

"So you finally got yourself a steady job. What do you want? A pat on the back?" Ruby sneered, knowing Sam wouldn't take it offensively.

"Ha-ha," Sam said sarcastically. "How are we gonna stay in contact?"

"I won't be able to enter that school," Ruby said, "so you'll have to come out. Any idea how you'll be able to do that?"

Sam frowned and shook his head. He looked at the demon with a pained look in his eyes, silently begging her for another solution. "I'll figure something out, Ruby. I will."

Ruby nodded and watched Sam suspiciously before sighing and digging her hand into her pocket. "I brought this as a last resort," she said, pulling out a silver flask with intricate designs engrained into it. Sam looked at it curiously and shot her a 'what-is-this' look. She shoved it into Sam's palm and said, "You know what it is."

His eyes widened in realization as his eyes fell onto the silver flask. He quickly stowed it into his pocket. "And what if I…need more?"

"Already jumping the gun there? Like you said, you'll figure something out. Just figure out a way to call me and get out of the school. We can meet here."

Sam hesitated, contemplating if this was right for a moment. "Alright."

* * *

><p><em>AN: There you go. Hope you're psychiced for Cas! Review if you wish to. La Revedere. _


	13. When With Idjits

_A/N: Hei :) (Finnish)_

_So my laptops back to normal and I'm gonna spend the rest of today watching TV and doing homework ('cause I've got soooo much). Next week I won't be having nearly as many tests as I've had over the last three weeks so thats a huge relief *sigh of relief*. Yep, that's about it._

Suuki-Aldrea:_ Hehe. Keep your fingers crossed_

Illucida:_ Perhaps. I'm glad you liked the calling thingy. I have absolutely no idea where I came up with it. As for the contact, mwahaha, I can't tell you_

INMH:_ Interesting? This is gonna knock your socks off_

MegTimeLord32998:_ As a person, I hate Ruby too. As a writer, she's so much fun to play with. Believe me, the chappie's are coming as fast as possible_

BlackWolf2013:_ Thanks! I hope you like what's to come_

Shadowess 88:_ NO! Leave questions! Mind you I may not be able to answer them, but they give me evil ideas! Oh and thanks for all the gush :) It makes me so happy to think I'm doing this right._

Yet another Super-thank-you to everyone who Reviewed, Favorited, or Story Alerted! I hug you all!

_Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter or Supernatural, I would be swimming in a pool of money right now._

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><p><em>(The Twenty-Fifth of August<em>) _In the States with Bobby_

"Damned idjits," Bobby muttered under his breath as he slammed one of his many phones down onto its receiver.

Neither of the Winchesters had called him in a matter of days—which was unusual to say the least seeing as he was their go-to person whenever they needed lore on whatever paranormal punk they were playing with—and Bobby was getting worried…and frustrated. They weren't the type of people who could—or would—just take a holiday or call in sick. They _had_ to be working a job. Neither of them had told him about any hunts they might be going on, —not that Bobby remembered anyways—and they hadn't persistently called him like they normally did when they needed some quick lore. There had to be a reason to that rhyme, and all logic pointed to them being hurt…or worse. Bobby shooed that thought from his head with the reasoning of them being Winchesters—finely-trained-in-every-aspect-of-fighting-and-supernatural-beings-Winchesters. They had to be fine…right?

Bobby slammed his fist into the countertop nearest to him. _Damn it!_ He thought angrily,_ What's the point of them two having so many friggin' phones if they're not gonna answer any of them!_

Until he felt he was in a more stable mind to come up with a legitimate course of action, Bobby seethed and mentally ranted about them being idjits. He thought back to what direction they had gone in last, trying to retrace their footsteps. They had been hunting a Siren and nearly killed each other—had Bobby not shown up and managed to stake it in the back, they probably would have. Then they'd disappeared off in Dean's—well it used to be John's—Impala. After that, he'd gotten nothing—nothing but a missed call from Dean a few weeks back. That was a little too much nothing for his liking.

He had tried to track the call but got bubkis. Dean's cell was probably off or smashed to bits or something. He had tried tracking the last license plate that was on the Impala but that wasn't coming up anywhere either—which meant that Dean had gotten new plates, he was driving without them, or the plates that had been on the Impala had been put on for show and weren't registered. There were a few other ways to track them but they would take too long for Bobby's liking. Plus, he had certain angel on his shoulder that could probably find them in a matter of seconds; which is what led him to his next brilliant plan.

Feeling like an idiot, Bobby sighed and clapped his hands together. "Okay look, Cas, neither of the Winchesters have been answering their phones, and I'm starting to get a little…freaked out."—He paused to look to see if the angel had floated his feathery ass into the room. No such luck. —"Could you get your ass down here and help me find—."

"I'm here," Cas said plainly, standing less than three inches behind Bobby. "You called."

"Yeah," Bobby said, turning around and putting a few feet between himself and the angel for the sake of his personal bubble. "Sam and Dean haven't been picking up their phones for a while, and I'm starting to feel like a worried soccer mom. Can you GPS-stalk then with your angel voodoo or something?"

"No. I have been trying to contact them as well, and it seems that their persons as well as every other form of tracking them is currently being guarded by some sort of magic," Cas explained, saying 'magic' as if he were sighing. "As of right now I have no way of finding either of them."

"Well can you find the last place they were at?"

"I have. They were in a motel in California. Then they weren't."

Bobby would've rolled his eyes if he hadn't been so distracted with concern. "So what? They vanished?" Bobby asked. His eyes suddenly widened as he realized what Cas might have been trying to break to him. "You don't think they…you know, kicked the bucket, do you?"

Cas hesitated. "I don't understand how kicking a 'bucket' has any relation to this conversation."

Bobby rolled his eyes, still worried but also frustrated. "Died, ya idjit."

Cas shook his head and said, "No. You were more likely correct when you said 'vanished'. I went to the motel they stood in and there weren't any signs of struggle. In fact, there weren't any signs of anything out of the normal in the entire town," said Cas guilelessly. "But there were traces of magic in the room. We are dealing with someone extremely powerful."

"Some_one_? It's a _person_?"

"Yes. I believe that whoever has Dean and Sam is a witch or wizard," Cas said. Bobby opened his mouth to comment but Cas continued, "Not like the one's you are used to. These one's are supreme in every sense of the term. They do not need hex bags or demons to help guide their magic—they are their own source."

"What in hell are you going on about?" Bobby demanded.

"The species of witch or wizard that has Dean and Sam can make magic in his or her self. They generally use a wand to control said magic. Under normal circumstances they prefer to stay _out_ of Muggle affairs."

"You had me, then you lost me. Re-start at wand and end at Muggle."

Cas started to explain but hesitated mid-sentence. He pointed to a window and told Bobby to open it. Bobby faltered, but ultimately obliged. As he did so, a hawk zoomed through the open space and landed on a table in the middle of the room. It pecked at its feathers, waiting for someone to do something.

"What the hell?" Bobby asked no one in particular as he furrowed his eyebrows and tried to suss out what was going on. Castiel seemed to understand though, seeing as he had already started untying the paper from the bird's leg. Bobby shut the window and agitatedly asked, "Do you mind explaining this?"

Cas read the back of the envelope to himself taking no notice that Bobby had walked up to him. "This is a letter from Dean to you."

"Gimme that," Bobby growled, snatching it from the angel's hands. He opened it up and read the message explaining how Dean and his brother were working a job and staying out of trouble out loud. _Yeah, right_, Bobby thought around the third line. Finishing the last line, Bobby read, "'P.S. Tell Cas I said 'hi''…_Balls_."

"This was not an imposter," Cas clarified. "There are no traces of magic in it. Dean wrote it willingly. If I can find him, I can figure out what job it is that he says he is working."

_Now_ Bobby rolled his eyes. "No _duh_, Captain Obvious."

Cas ignored the snide-remark and stuck out his arm, which Zimmerman—as Dean called his hawk—latched onto immediately. Holding the bird at eye level, the angel stared into its black eyes and tried to read its mind to find out where it had last been. After a several seconds of nothing, Cas sighed and gave up. "I can't read its mind. It is magically enhanced."

"Is there anything you _can_ do?"

"Yes," Cas said unfazed. He mumbled something in Enochian as he pinched one of the bird's feathers, making it squawk in protest as said feather changed to a pure white for a moment before fading back to normal. "That was an Enochian tracking spell. I should be able to find this bird no matter where it goes in the world. Write a letter to Dean and we'll send the hawk back to him. I'll be able to find him then."

Bobby sighed and dug around the room for a blank sheet of paper and a pen. After retrieving both he scribbled down:

_Dean,_

_I swear to god, or whatever supernatural asshole is out there controlling the universe, that if you don't write me a less cryptic letter back, you can look forward to me kicking your ass._

_-Bobby_

"There," Bobby said, shoving the letter to Cas, "that ought to do."

Cas read it over and nodded, figuring that what the letter said wasn't of great importance, only whether it got to Dean or not.

"Fine," he said, tying it to the hawk's leg. Cas instructed Bobby to open the window once more, and as soon as it was wide, Cas looked at the bird and said, "Bring the letter to Dean."

The hawk seemed to have nodded before taking off.

Bobby watched the bird go with a smirk on his face. "You know why he named it Zimmerman, right?"

Cas frowned and shook his head, waiting simply out of curiosity.

"Robert Zimmerman," explained Bobby, "better known as Bob Dylan. God, he even gives his _pets_ rock aliases."

Cas seemed to ponder that for a moment before saying, "I will call you when I have their location."

Bobby sighed as he sat down on the chair nearest to him. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering about what had just happened.

"Damnit."

* * *

><p><em>(The Thirty-First of August) The morning in Grimmauld Place…<em>

"Booklists have arrived," Ron said, tossing an envelope onto Harry's bed as his friend cleaned out Hedwig's cage. "About time too, they usually come much earlier than this. You'd have thought they'd have forgotten us."

Harry swept the last of his owl's dropping into a rubbish bin, which belched loudly as it consumed the trash. He placed the bin on the floor before grabbing the letter and opening it up. The usual two pieces of parchment sat inside: one reminding him that the term started on September 1 and that the Hogwarts Express would be leaving promptly at 11 o' clock, and the second containing the information of what books and equipment he would be needing for his fifth year at Hogwarts.

"Only two new ones and some clothing," Harry noted, as he scanned the list from behind his specs.

"Glad it's not dress robes…" Ron commented remembering the Yule Ball disaster last year as he finished opening his own letter.

"_The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5_, by Miranda Goshawk and _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard," Harry read out loud. "And then there's sweatpants, T-shirt, sneakers, and a notebook."

_Crack_.

The Weasley twins Apparated on either side of Harry. He was already so used to that though that he didn't so much as flinch when they appeared.

"We were just wondering which one had assigned the Slinkhard book," Fred said conversationally.

"Probably the Muggles," said Harry. "It's just a theory book."

"That's what I thought," George commented.

"But I pointed out that if they wanted to teach us magical theory than they could just hire a witch," Fred pointed out.

"A witch who knows her stuff like Umbridge," George continued.

"So the clothes would probably be for the Muggle class."

"Which would make _sense_ seeing as _The Prophet_ seems to think they have no means of using magic."

"And would therefore be teaching the class in a similar form as a Muggle class."

"What are you gaping at, Ron?"

"Hasn't mother told you you'll catch a fly if you do that?"

"She's told us that," the twins finished in unison.

Sure enough, as Harry diverted his eyes to Ron, he saw that his taller, redheaded friend had his mouth slightly agape and was standing stiffly as he stared at his letter from Hogwarts.

"What's up with you?" Fred asked impatiently as he wandered around Ron to read the parchment from over his brother's shoulder.

Fred's mouth fell open.

"Prefect?" he gasped, re-reading the letter unsure of whether or not he was reading it correct. "_Prefect?_"

George stole the envelope from his little brother and flipped it upside-down. A shiny badge colored scarlet and gold fell into George's palm.

"No way."

* * *

><p><em>(The Thirty-First of August) The afternoon with Cas… <em>

"They're in England. London to be more specific," Cas said into the receiver of the phone by his ear. He had only just appeared in London, but knew Bobby would appreciate the small bit of information he had just disclosed.

"London!" Bobby exclaimed over the crackly line. "How the _hell_ did they get there?"

"It was either Apparation or a port-key," Cas said. "That is somewhat like what you might call 'teleportation'."

"Wait. Is _that_ what you do whenever you just appear somewhere?"

"Similar, but no. What I and all angels do is a much more archaic version of Apparation."

Bobby paused, determining whether or not he should continue on the divergent topic—eventually deciding it would be fine. "How so?"

"For one, I do not make noise when I seem to appear somewhere."

"Oh…and some witch did this?"

"Or wizard, yes. The hawk landed in a place called The Leaky Cauldron," explained Cas as he looked at said wizard bar in front of him. "I cannot enter though. It's covered in Enochian warding symbols, some of which I've never even seen; there are also many demon-warding protection units like salt and iron ingrained in the walls as well as numerous symbols of protection."

Cas narrowed his eyes, trying to sense the best way to worm himself into the wizarding community. Most of his angelic feelers were blocked by all the warding magic until one of them found what seemed to be a chink in the warding armor.

"Cas?" Bobby's voice asked through the phone. "You still there?"

"Yes," he responded, taking note in his mind of the fact that many minutes had probably escaped his notice while he had mentally searched for the hole. "I believe I have found a way in. I'll call you back as soon as I can."

Cas hung up the phone without so much as a 'goodbye' because he had no time to be wasted. He honed in his aurora and squeezed it into the crack, making it expand until it made enough room for him to enter. He disappeared into the hole and found himself in a musky old shop. He looked a bit disoriented and bewildered as he walked to an archaic yet elegant wooden counter.

"You looking for something?" a man behind him asked.

He faced the merchant, and, upon a quick search through his mind, he discovered that the oily-looking man was called Borgin and that he ran the shop. Cas decided that the man, Borgin, could be of his use.

"Someone," he plainly said, not budging. "He would be six feet and one inch tall, short brown hair, grey-green eyes, and probably wearing a black T-shirt under a leather jacket."

The man raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and shook his head. "Never seen him."

He was telling the truth—Cas had watched his mind to make sure no memories of Dean had popped up. None had.

"How about a man six feet and four inches tall, long brown hair, green eyes, and in a button-up shirt under a khaki jacket?" Cas tried again. The memory of the huge man flashed through Borgin's thoughts, and Cas nodded before the wizard had a chance to speak. "That is all."

He started to head for the door, but realized that warding symbols adorned the streets outside. That was probably why it had been so difficult to find a way into the area. He turned and looked back at the man, who eyed him suspiciously.

Cas sighed before walking back to the wizard. "I require your—"

He cut himself short as he noticed a newspaper labeled _The Daily Prophet_ sitting on the counter, where the shopkeeper had put it when he returned to his desk. Upon one glance, he knew that the front-page article was about Dean and Sam.

"What?" Borgin demanded trying to regain the angel's attention.

"That newspaper," Cas said. "May I see it?"

The merchant still wore a look of suspicion, but handed it over. Cas quickly scanned it and came to realize that the so-called 'gig' Dean had spoke of was none other than a position at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts of all things. Checking the date on the paper, he realized it had been dated a few weeks previous. He pieced everything together in a matter of seconds. Albus Dumbledore had most likely been the one to have Apparated the Winchesters from California. That would explain why they were staying in The Leaky Cauldron as well—they must have been waiting for the beginning of term. Cas's only chance of being able to stop them would be on their way to platform nine and three quarters while they were still on the Muggle end of the wall.

"When does the Hogwarts school term begin?" Cas asked Borgin.

"September 1 like it always has."

"Thank you," Cas said, right before silently vanishing back into the Muggle street in front of The Leaky Cauldron.

He grabbed his phone from one of his trench coat's pockets, where he had stored it. Next he quickly dialed Bobby's number, which he had committed to memory. It took less than a single ring before he heard the gruff voice asking him what had happened. He explained everything he had discovered.

"So you've got to wait until tomorrow to get them?" Bobby asked.

"Yes."

Bobby muttered "_Balls_" under his breath and said, "Okay then. Just don't lose them."

Cas hung up the phone. He had a long day coming up.

* * *

><p><em>AN: And there you go. Don't worry, I have a lot of plans for Cas and Bobby to stay in the story. Oh, and please don't complain about time-zones or whatever - they bother me so don't expect me to be 100% accurate with them. Review of you want to. Näkemiin._


	14. Day Train to Hogwarts

_A/N: Lorem :) (That one's in Latin)_

_Sorry for the wait - not a lot happening here so I really have no good excuse. I've got a ton of things to do on Thursday though - science test, band practice, dentist appointment, and guitar lessons…Yeah, that's gonna be a long day. On the bright side, I have discovered a good place to eat lunch near my school (within walking distance which is pretty weird 'cause the schools right behind a highway and pretty far away from actual civilization) and I went to Barnes & Nobles the other day and got some pretty good books - now I just need to learn how to juggle them with school books (Grrr). So that's that._

_Raven Aorla: It's coming really really soon (even some in this chap)_

_Lieutenant Winter: Thanks. I try to imagine Misha Collins saying it before I write it down._

_Illucida: You'll just have to wait and see (*evil smile cause I know something you don't yet*)_

_Greeniron: Thanks :)_

_Suuki-Aldrea: Hehe, your review made me laugh_

_INMH: LOL_

_BlackWolf2013: Thanks. Yeah, Bobby is a little bit of a worry-wart…okay, a lot of a worry-wart_

_Shadowess 88: XD Mwahaha, you have to wait to see. Yeah, I added the Zimmerman explanation just for anyone who didn't catch my little reference. Secondly, I get the feeling that they've been questioning their sanity since forever :)_

_lisa demonic angel: The short answer is so that Bobby can smack them upside the head for ditching out on them. The long answer comes later in the story (it's mostly 'cause they're ditching the apocalypse)_

_Huge Thanks to Everyone that Reviewed, Story-Alerted, or Favorited! This story's broken the 50 review point and in celebration you all get Cas plushies! (But virtual, make-believe ones 'cause I don't have any real ones) Oh and virtual Hugs/High-fives/Handshakes for All! :D_

_Disclaimer: Okay, fine, I'll admit it, I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter…there, happy?_

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><p><em>(The First of September) Around ten thirty-ish a.m. with the Winchesters and McGonagall in The Leaky Cauldron…<em>

Dean smirked as he finished off reading the letter from Bobby. It was classic to say the least. Dean silently vowed to write back as soon as the second presented itself. Right now wasn't that time though. Sam opened the door when he heard some scratching noises against it. He had peeked his head out only to find McGonagall—in all her cat-like glory—striding in, brushing against Sam's tree-trunk leg as she did so.

"Are all of your belongings packed?" McGonagall asked after morphing back into her human-form once the Winchesters' room was securely closed off to outsiders.

They nodded. They hadn't taken too much from the Impala's trunk on their first day in the wizard world—just a few spare pieces of clothing, some weapons, and a bag of salt, which was half empty now. Accompanying all of that in their trunks was everything they had bought in Diagon Alley. Sam had done a mental checklist and they were set.

"Good," the old witch said. "We are going to take a port key to King's Cross station."

"That was the thing that made the Impala teleport, right?" Sam asked.

"It is the same spell, yes."

"Okay, well then…where is it?"

McGonagall pondered that for a few seconds before extracting her wand from her coat—which Sam suddenly noticed were Muggle-made...and old - like made-in-the-thirties old. She pointed it at Dean's trunk, causing it to glow blue like the sky on a clear day and then fade back to its usual musky brown. "There. On the count of three I'd like for you to touch it. Are you ready?"

Sam grabbed his trunk and prepared himself how ever he could—mostly by telling himself it wouldn't be _that_ bad. Dean grimaced, clutching Zimmerman's cage in his tight grasp and remembering the spinning, flying and all that other fun stuff from his first experience with a port key. Only a person who didn't know him could possibly think he was he looking forward to this. He muttered out his reply of, "Let's get this over with."

"One…two…_three_."

They each stuck a finger onto the trunk and felt the terrible sensation of spinning and flying plummet through their entire bodies, especially their stomachs. They continued to rocket upwards, each finger in place as if super-glued on. The bothers squinted hard, Dean holding back barf in the back of his throat. Soon, a dreadful falling sensation swallowed them as they reached their destination. As soon as all magical aerial motion stopped, both Winchesters fell to the floor hard enough to rattle them to their bones. McGonagall, on the other hand, merely straightened out her clothes and told them to pull themselves together.

Dean rolled his eyes as he dragged himself and his panicked hawk up. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Awesome," Sam grunted, pushing his trunk off of his upper torso. Dean stretched a hand out to him, which he gratefully accepted to help pull him up. "Thanks."

"Any time," Dean said before turning to McGonagall. "So, where to next, Glinda?"

"My name is Minerva," she said in tensely.

"That was a refr…you know what? Never mind," Dean sighed, thinking that the witch was just about as socially aware about movies as Cas was.

"No matter," she continued, starting her briskly paced walk. The brothers each grabbed their trunks and started on after her. "We are going to platform nine and three quarters.

"Uh," Sam started confused, looking at the platform numbers as they walked through the station - all of which were solid numbers. "Nine and three quarters?"

"Yes," McGonagall said. She suddenly stopped and cocked her head slightly as if she had heard something neither Winchesters' ears had picked up on. "We are being followed."

Sam sent a hand immediately to whatever weapon were closest to it while Dean silently cursed to himself, struggling to find a way to hold a trunk and a bird in a cage while trying to find a weapon. Giving up, Dean quietly asked, "Who?"

"Follow along," she responded, obviously trying to sound casual. Whoever was following them must have been close. Neither Winchester questioned her further, but tried to figure out where and who the supposed stalker was.

"There's the entrance," McGonagall said, pointing to a brick wall between platforms nine and ten.

Dean cocked his head stiffly and gave a 'what-are-you-joking-' look to the witch. "No. That's a brick wall."

"If your nervous, I'd suggest you run a bit."

"What?" Sam asked, dipping his head a little bit closer to the witch to see whether or not he had heard her right.

"It'll allow you to pass. Now go."

"I would challenge you to Rock, Paper, Scissors," Dean said with a grimace, "but my hands are a little full. Have I ever told you about the bitches first rule?"

Sam rolled his eyes and stared at the wall with a pained expression painted to his face. "Jerk," he said, right before dragging his trunk behind him and making a hesitant jog towards the brick blockade before him.

Dean watched incredulously as his little brother melted through the bricks the moment he should have collided with them. He took a step back and looked to McGonagall in distress. "Where'd he go?"

"The platform," she answered simply, peering over her shoulder. "Your turn. Off you go."

Taking a deep breath, Dean faced the wall and tightened his lips for a moment. "Here goes nothing."

He started running, his eyes half open as the wall neared his face with every quickly taken step he made. As he passed though the wall, he could have sworn he heard someone shout something behind him but his ears were overwhelmed with a roaring sound that smothered his hearing.

* * *

><p><em>(The First of September) Between Platforms Nine and Ten…<em>

"Dean!" Cas shouted in that gruff voice of his, beginning to quicken his pace as he saw Dean disappear though the barrier. The witch who had been guiding them met his eyes through the crowds of average civilians for a moment before following after Dean. "Wait!"

He started to run at the wall with the bottom ends of his trench coat flapping behind him, but stopped himself within inches of it. The Enochian symbols glowed brightly against the bricks mocking him and invisible to anyone who wasn't an angel. He pounded his fist against the wall once and sighed in defeat. He had lost them.

He picked his phone from his pocket and dialed Bobby.

"Did you get them?" Bobby greeted him with immediately.

Cas pinched his lips together for a second, not really wanting to disclose his failure to Bobby - really to anyone. Finally, sighing, he said, "No."

"_Balls_," cursed Bobby. "What the _hell_ happened?"

"They crossed though the barrier to Platform nine and three quarters with a witch."

"What? Are you still following them?"

"…No. The platform to get to the school is blocked by a brick wall covered in Enochian-warding symbols and demon-warding symbols. Dean, Sam, and a witch went though it and I cannot follow."

"So…what now?"

On a leap of faith, Cas stared at the wall and tried to send his aurora into a crack that he knew wasn't there, as he had done to get into the shop the day before. Despite his concentration and will, it was to no avail.

"Cas? You there?"

"Yes," he sighed defeated. "There is nothing I can do here. I am going to leave."

And with that, the angel hung up and vanished.

* * *

><p><em>(The First of September) On Platform Nine and Three Quarters <em>

Sam and Dean stood next to one another incredulously watching the crowds of kids - brothers, sisters, friends and parents - that had all been hidden on the other side of the wall a few moments ago. Through the steam billowing and blanketing the station they saw snippets of everything; mother patting her little daughter on the head and boding her farewell with two wet kisses on either of her cheeks; the boy Sam had seen in Borgin and Burks listening carefully to something his father told him; several kids who looked like munchkins compared to Sam scampering around the brothers giggling and shouting playfully—they couldn't have been a day older than nine; owls hooting playfully to one another, cats lurking around and between the legs of witches and wizards, and occasionally someone letting loose a panicked cry of "Trevor!" There was even a distinct smell of life wafting throughout the station. This place, these people, this world was like nothing Sam or Dean had ever encountered without ultimately having to blow up—it was a nice change.

McGonagall had silently appeared behind them and allowed them to continue to let their eyes feast on all the students they would soon be educating.

"This," McGonagall said, "is Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Now we best get a move on to get into a compartment."

It was then that the Winchesters gained sight of the red and black locomotive sitting idly yet grandly in the station. Its elegance graced the tracks and several doors allowing entrance stood wide open, patiently waiting to swallow all the professors and students and whisk them off to Hogwarts.

"We best get to the front," McGonagall said, as she briskly started off towards the far end of the station. They walked past a boy and his shaggy haired dog that had hopped onto its hinds and put it's forepaws on his shoulders, figuring that things as such were "normal" in this world. But McGonagall came to a sudden halt at a man with a bowler's cap pulled over one eye. As he acknowledged her, she introduced both professors, "Sam, Dean, this is Alastor Moody. Alastor, these are the new professors, Sam and Dean Winchester."

The man warily extended a calloused hand to them - his visible eye squinting a little as if wondering why he could not see through their souls. Sam cautiously took the hand first, giving time to Dean so that his brother could set down Zimmerman's cage.

"Pleasure," Alastor said said blandly. "You're Muggles then?"

"Yes," Sam said, scrunching his eyebrows and trying to remember something that was crawling towards the tip of his tongue.

"Howdy," Dean said shaking the large hand with a tight grip and one of those trademark smiles of his. He peered into the single blue eye that was visible on the other man as if challenging, or even daring, the other man to squeeze his hand harder.

"Haven't I heard your name before?" Sam asked keeping his eyes vigilant and his mind open so that he could search through his memories. "Yeah, I have, in that newspaper article a few weeks back. You used to teach at Hogwarts—."

"Hardly," the worn man snorted, watching the enormous Winchesters carefully.

Sam, not knowing how to respond, shut his mouth and slackened his posture a bit.

"No bothers then?" Moody asked her in a gruff voice that sounded like Bobby with emphysema. McGonagall shook her head. "Anyone follow you?"

"Yes," said McGonagall, as she nodded her head slowly and grimly.

Moody's single visible eye slanted in. "Did you see who it was?"

McGonagall nodded once more "I only caught a glimpse of him. He seemed to know Mr. Winche—Dean's name. He didn't pursue us after we crossed the barrier though."

Moody contemplated that for a moment and told the witch that he would report it to Dumbledore "just in case." Things as prominent as that, he said, required constant vigilance - Dean, for one, found himself wondering whether or not the ghost of his dad was possessing the man. He took a moment to inform McGonagall that someone named 'Sturgis' had not shown up for the second time that week in an agitated voice before bidding her and the new professors farewell with a tip of his cap.

They boarded at the near front of the train, lugging their trunks behind them with high hopes that nothing inside would be damaged. McGonagall lead them to a room labeled as 'Compartment C' and the Winchester's deposited their trunks onto the empty luggage rack that had been waiting patiently for something to hold.

"I'm afraid that I must part with you for some time. I trust you'll be able to manage?" McGonagall asked, sounding like she genuinely cared.

"Yeah sure," Dean said bluntly as he unlatched his trunk and started riffling though it.

"Where are you going?" Sam inquired.

"I need to be off to meet with the new prefects, inform them of their duties and things of that manner."

The train's whistle sliced the air filled with enthusiasm and the hiss of steam leaving the train's pistons followed close behind. As the train began to inch towards the next point in their journey, McGonagall stepped out from the compartment and shut the glass door behind her.

Sam watched as his brother—also known as his only source of amusement in the room—grabbed a quill and some parchment before shutting and locking his trunk. Dean sat himself down opposite of Sam, put his feet on the cushioned bench, and leaned his back against the glass window. Sam decided to search his trunk as well, and, by the time he was finished, he had his magical lesson planner, his dad's journal, and his copies of Magical Items & Devices and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them at the ready. As Sam read, took notes and scheduled lessons, Dean thought out his reply letter to Bobby. The last thing he needed was to write something wrong and consequently set Bobby to chase his ass out of England and call him an "idjit". He had to be careful about what he did and did not say. It took him a good fifteen to twenty minutes before he rolled his head back against the glass window behind him and admitted to himself that he had nothing.

Sam - who had decided to take a moment to stretch out his sore hand that had been writing since the train began to roll out of the station - noticed his brother's lack of motion. "You okay?"

Dean regarded his brother, surprised Sam even remembered he was still in the compartment while he had so many books at his fingertips before saying, "Yeah. Why?"

Sam shrugged, "You're being quiet."

"I don't exactly have a Metallica cassette on hand, Sam," Dean snorted. "Or anything to play it on for that matter."

"That's all?" Sam prodded further.

Dean lifted his shoulders and dropped them quickly, "That's all, Sam."

There was silence for a few heartbeats before Sam spoke up again. "You never told me what Bobby wrote back."

Dean slowly dug his hand into his pocket and grabbed the letter from there, tossing it to Sam as soon as he did. Sam read it over and smirked a bit.

"You gonna reply?"

Dean swept his hands out to the quill and blank parchment before him. "That's what I'm doing, Sam."

Silent hours passed on and on after that. They passed the British countryside, with its hills dipping up and sloping down, and occasional wooden house plopped awkwardly in the middle of it all. The steady beat of the wheels turning in their tracks had gently rocked Dean to sleep at one point and he sat there unconscious like a kid who had started homework past twelve o'clock and fell asleep somewhere around three. Sam had been steadily filling in the planner and was already finishing up February's lessons. At one point a lady had made her way down the hall asking whether he wanted any candy from the trolley. He had ordered an iced Pumpkin Juice and got a pack of what looked like jelly beans for Dean when he woke up. Sam found himself watching the window as rain started to gently pelt them from the weeping grey cloud above.

"We there yet?" Dean groaned, as the train hit a bump and violently shook him awake.

"No, not yet."

"_Ugh_," Dean moaned. "I'm starving. What? No food on the Polar Express?"

"Here," Sam said, chucking the jellybeans to his brother. "Got them for you when the candy trolley came by."

"Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans," he read off the pinstriped box. "Thanks, Sammy."

Dean tore the top of the box open and threw a bean over to his brother, who swiftly caught it despite the lack of warning. "Cheers," he said plucking out one himself.

Before either brother had the chance to eat the beans, the compartment door opened and McGonagall stepped inside. "You two best put your robes on now. We'll be arriving shortly."

"Okay then," Sam said, popping the bean into his mouth. His face scrunched in distaste, as the gross flavor of what he thought was dirt covered his taste buds. "Oh, gross." –(He choked out the bean and pathetically tried to spit out the flavor into his hand)—"Wh-what _is_ that?"

McGonagall chuckled at the younger Winchester's reaction to his first Every Flavor Bean. "It seems you have discovered the more negative aspects to Bertie Botts."

"No kidding," Sam spat, wiping and pawing at his mouth furiously.

Dean eyed the red-splotched-pink bean in his fingers for a moment, contemplating whether or not to give it a try, and eventually deciding against it. "Well don't you know how to pick 'em."

"Shut up," Sam muttered.

McGonagall left them to their devices as she made her way out of the compartment. Sam and Dean pulled themselves up and went to their trunks, putting away everything they had taken out of them at the beginning of the ride. They both took out their robes and threw them on over the clothes they were already dressed in, only taking off their jackets.

"How do I look?" Sam finally asked, turning to his older brother with his arms hanging loosely by his sides like ragdolls.

Dean gave his brother a once over before responding with, "Like a super-sized Goth chick going to the prom."

Sam pouted and quickly rolled his eyes, making his self-consciousness clear to Dean. "Like you look any better."

"Hey! I _always_ look better."

Sam sighed, mumbling, "Whatever helps you sleep at night," before noticing the sight just beyond the window. "Will you look at that."

The brothers stared out at the tower, the castle looming closer and closer overhead. The old bricks were packed together in the distance and stood out against the darkening backdrop of a sky behind it. Some yellow-orange light beamed out from some of the windows, making Sam wonder which room they were going to be in. Magnificent was too small of a word to describe the entire castle; in fact, no words could describe it. It was too perfect and grand and probably the most beautiful thing the Winchesters had ever seen. And they wouldn't have to blow it up. This year was going to be good.

The train jolted to a stop and students filled the hallway outside as they pushed and shoved to get out of the enclosed space.

"We'll wait," said Sam, not really in the mood to fight his way through the barriers of children outside.

Dean gave an over exasperated sigh before plopping himself down on the bench and saying, "Yeah, whatever."

* * *

><p><em>AN: And there you go. I promise that it picks up the pace more along the way, and that I have plans (evil plans? Of course) for Cas's plot-line so he stays as a regular in the story. You'll be seeing more character interactions from here on out (I promise). Review if you feel like it. Vale :)_


	15. Scenes From A Hogwartian Restaurant

_A/N: Cześć :) (Polish hello)_

_Okay so I would have posted yesterday but I was visiting my aunt and cousin, and had really really slow internet. Sucks for me. Good news - for me - is that I only have three school days this week (*woot woot*) and I'm going to the Poconos on Wednesday afternoon (gotta love those random holidays like Thanksgiving). I'm gonna have some major separation issues from the internet though (*sobs pathetically*). _

_MegTimeLord32998: Transitional chapters do suck…but you gotta love 'em!_

_Shadowess 88: LOL Your Bertie Botts story sounds terrible…but made me chuckle. I've never eaten them myself but I have had the pleasure of trying Fudge Flies - they're okay. No, Harry gets caught spying on Draco in the sixth book. And feather dander on Dean's jacket? (Evil plans!) As for Thestrals, you get a glimpse of them here but there will be more of them in the future._

_lexzly: Sorry to say but I don't have any plans for an OC hunter. As for the lessons…let's just say that they're gonna be intense_

_Lieutenant Winter: I've contacted my inner Winchesters to answer your question and they bluntly said that they agreed to the job so that they could piss on god's plan. Gotta love them twos :D_

_BlackWolf2013: Yeah, I'm not really cutting Cas a break (*sorry Cas*) and Sam…well I don't think he's ever gonna look at a jelly bean the same way again_

_Suuki-Aldrea: Yeah, took me long enough to get them there right? Well here they are, finally_

_Illucida: Thanks_

_INMH: Yeah, Cas is just having one of those days. And Dean's just chilling out, being Dean-ish. Glad you can't wait for a certain pink hag ;)_

_Mignun: Yeah! I converted you to my crossover :D I hope you like my evils plans to come_

_Helhound: Thanks a ton!_

_esperanza100: Thx!_

_lisa demonic angel: yep. lesons r separate tho so Umbridge wont b actully teachin sidebyside wit the Winchesters, cause they hav diff leson thingies…hard 2 explain, u'll get it when u read it. And u dont lke Ron? Im curious. Y? _(x2)

Thanks to everyone who Reviewed, Read, Story-Alerted, or Favorited! You all deserve hugs but instead you get story!

Disclaimer: Despite the quotes in this chap, I don't own Harry Potter. Despite my use of Winchesters, I don't own Supernatural. Despite how much I want to, I don't. :( Oh well.

* * *

><p><em>(The First of September) continued…<em>

When the students of Hogwarts had all cleared off the train, Sam and Dean unpacked themselves and searched for someone who knew where they should be heading. Unfortunately, McGonagall was already lost in the sea of crowds and neither Winchester could pinpoint her location despite being able to see over everyone's heads in the Hogsmeade Station.

"First years line up over here, please!" a female's voice yelled over the crowds. "All first years to me!"

The Winchesters made their way through a large crowd of tiny people, approaching a woman with one heck of a chin and a terrible haircut. She continued her chant until Sam finally interrupted, "Do you know where we should be headed?"

She looked them over as if trying to figure out what the heck they were doing there before she pointed for them to continue onwards. "Just keep going on until you hit the roadside. From there, take one of the stagecoaches. It'll bring you to the castle."

"Thank-you," Sam replied gratefully, pulling his trunk and his brother along. After getting tired of all the noise and Zimmerman's cacophonous squawking, Sam demanded, "Will you shut your bird up, Dean?"

"_Zimmerman,_" Dean started, "doesn't like enclosed spaces and hasn't been allowed out of his cage for hours. Can you blame him?"

"I don't care, Dean. Just shut it up."

Dean smacked his brother's arm and continued onwards without him. He paused as he reached the stagecoach to inspect the dark, bony horses with leathery wings that would be pulling them to Hogwarts. He shook his head in disdain, before heaving his trunk and hawk into the carriage. Two identical redheads and a dark-skinned boy with dreadlocks soon joined him. The twins shared a glance and broke into the same cheeky smile before extending their right hands out to him simultaneously.

"Hi, I'm Fred—"

"—And I'm George—"

"Weasley," the pair finished together as they both took a turn shaking Dean's hand.

"I'm Lee Jordan," the dreadlocked boy said, being the last to have access to a handshake.

"Dean. Dean Winchester," he introduced casually. He pointed to his brother and said, "And the Sasquatch over there who needs to hurry up is Sam."

"The new professors, I presume?" Fred asked conversationally.

"That's us."

"Well then let us be the first to welcome you to Hogwarts," George said.

"Welcome," said the trio in unison.

The four of them spoke casually amongst each other as Sam hefted his trunk into the carriage. After pulling himself inside, the eerie horses began making their way towards the castle, forcing the wheels to creak and turn with every foot or so gained.

"So what are those things that pull the carriage? I've never seen those in my whole life," Sam asked, trying to join the conversation. "And I've seen some pretty weird stuff."

The student trio shared an odd look with one another, silently questioning the mental sanity of their new professor—though after so many years with so professors not quite on their rockers, who could blame them? For the Winchesters' sake, the twins and Lee hoped that their new and friendly professors didn't go out 'Quirrell-style.'

Sam looked at Dean, silently asking whether or not he had seen the bony horses or not—to which Dean responded with a single jerk of his head, making Sam feel his mental stability was still, well, stable.

"Okay, bad question," commented Dean. "Better one: what grade are you all in?"

"I'm in my seventh year," said Lee leaning back in his seat comfortably, "and the twins are in their sixth."

"Which gives us whippersnappers another year of mayhem—"

"—And shenanigans to look forward to after this."

"I'm sure," stated Dean, sharing a glance with his brother, mentally telling him that he approved of the trio.

Chat punctured with an occasional round of laughter continued like that until the carriage halted in front of the stone steps just before the great oak doors of Hogwarts. Lee was the first to exit, followed by the twins, Dean, then Sam. The brothers grabbed their trunks, only to be told not to bother by either Fred or George—now that the twins were out of the carriage, neither of the Winchesters could tell them apart based on where they were seated—because the house elves would take care of them.

"House elves?" Dean questioned as he took his hawk from the cage anyway. "Aren't they a bit busy working in Santa's workshop?"

"Not these ones," one of the twins said with a grin.

"Is he always this tall?" the other twin asked, looking up at Sam. Dean couldn't resist the snort as Sam rolled his eyes and looked away.

They followed the massive crowd of students pouring into the entrance hall, eventually losing their stagecoach buddies. They ignored all stares they were probably receiving in order to concentrate on sticking together and reaching the giant hall where everyone seemed to be assembling at. Four long tables began filling up as the students entered and took their places. Dean caught sight of Dumbledore at a long table in the very front, filled with whom they presumed were the rest of the staff. He pulled his younger brother, who was intrigued with the star splattered night sky scene floating above them, along to the staff table. Zimmerman took off from where he had been perched on Dean's shoulder and circled around a few floating candles before settling down on a chair that Dean eventually reached and sat down in. Sam took place to his brother's right, starting to feel more than just a bit thirsty.

Dean turned to his left and eyed the guy sitting next to him who he could have sworn he recognized as the original Emo kid—what with his goth-like black robes, pasty skin that probably hadn't seen sunlight in years, dark eyes poked in place, and hooked nose curved like Captain Hook's hook.

"Is there something you'd like to say?" the man drawled out, sounding bored and not bothering to grace Dean with a glance.

Immediately recognizing that the guy was both Goth _and_ a grouch—to say the least—Dean couldn't help but smile cheekily and say, "Howdy. I'm Dean."

* * *

><p><em>(The First of September) With Harry and co.<em>

Harry scanned the staff table from where he sat halfway down the Gryffindor table. He desperately tried to peer over his fellow students' heads to catch sight of Hagrid, but his half-giant friend wasn't there. Hermione, Ron, and he quietly discussed where they thought Hagrid might be, eventually coming to the wary decision that he simply wasn't back from his mission or whatever it was that Dumbledore had sent him to do over the summer.

"That must be them," Hermione said, pointing towards the middle of the staff table.

Harry followed her gaze and saw three new figures sitting next to one another—the Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. Dumbledore had his head inclined towards the woman sitting next to him and talking into his ear. She was fully decked out in pink—a fluffy pink cardigan, a pink headband, and even flabby pink cheeks. As she took a small sip from her goblet, Harry recognized the toad like qualities on her face from his hearing.

"Umbridge," Harry muttered, gaining some attention from his mates. "She was at my hearing. She works for Fudge."

Ron smirked and commented, "Nice cardigan."

Harry flashed his eyes over to the two male professors, who must have been the Muggles. The one sitting directly next to Umbridge was a good foot or two taller than the witch, even sitting down—Harry could only imagine how tall he was standing up. He had long, neatly parted brown hair and a particularly straight nose. Harry watched as the man's thin eyes surveyed the masses of students before him and flinched when the slightly shorter man next to him nudged him. The man had a shorter haircut, which was longer than a crew cut but shorter than his counterpart's, and a devilish smirk plastered to his face. The man turned his head and said something to Snape while the longhaired one dug his hands into his robes and extracted what looked to be a silver flask. He quickly unscrewed it and took a small sip before stowing it away.

"You don't suppose it's pumpkin juice, do you?" Ron asked, remembering the last professor to drink from a flask at the beginning of term feast.

"It's never pumpkin juice, Ron," Harry said, keeping his eyes locked on his suspicious new professor. Eventually the taller man's eyes analyzed the Gryffindor table, lingering on Harry for a second or so longer than anywhere else. Harry's hand jumped to his forehead as he felt a suddenly felt a sharp jolt sting through his scar.

"Harry?" Hermione said like it was a question. "Are you okay?"

Harry moved his gaze from his friend back over to his professor, who looked curious as to why the be-speckled boy had made such an abrupt movement. Keeping his jaw locked together, he mumbled, "I'm fine."

"The shorter one's Dean Winchester," announced Fred to the trio as he, his twin, and Lee Jordan made took their seats.

"And the tall bloke's Sam," said George, "his brother."

"And how would you know that?" Hermione inquired, doubtfully.

"We shared a stagecoach with them on the way here," Lee said distractedly, wiping his dreadlocks from his eyes and he noticed Angelina Johnson sitting nearby, and chatting casually with Katie Bell.

"And you're already on a first name basis with them?"

"Yep," commented Fred. "Sam's decent. He's…what's the word?

"Inquisitive," supplied George. "You can tell he's a part-time genius, but a bit mad. And Dean's an alright guy."

"Got a sense of humor," Fred added.

"Why's Sam mad?" Harry asked suspiciously, his eyes prying into the twins for information.

"Said he thought something was pulling the carriages," said Fred.

"But the carriages were pulling themselves like always," George added with some self-assured nods.

Harry's eyes wandered back to his new professor, realizing that maybe they were all "just as sane" as Luna Lovegood—after all Harry had seen some eerie bony horses pulling the stagecoaches that weren't there last year. It could be that they were all having the same hallucination, but more likely it was that those things were real.

"They're _dreamy_," Ginny sighed joining them all. Harry bit down on his tongue when he heard that, though not completely sure as to why.

"Ginevra—"

"—Weasley."

"You are not to speak about professors like that."

"What would mum say if she heard you were going all dewy-eyed over professors?"

"She would be too distracted with the view to say anything. Remember Lockhart?" Ginny retorted to her older twin siblings. "And besides, I was just pointing out the facts."

"Yeah, sure you were," Fred mumbled, rolling his eyes.

"Oh no," Ron muttered, as he watched yet another professor join the table. "Grubbly-Plank."

They watched as Professor Grubbly-Plank took a seat at the end of the table, where Hagrid was accustomed to sitting this time of year. The door opened and there stood Hogwarts' latest additions. The first years must have finished their journey across the lake without any issue, though based on their faces when they entered the Great Hall, one would have thought they'd just watched one of their mates be swallowed by the giant squid. They fidgeted a bit in their line, uncertainty written on their faces. McGonagall stood at the front of the line, a stool and a heavily patched hat with a rip near the rim in her hands. When silence blanketed the voices within the Great Hall, she led them onwards to the front, right before the staff table.

* * *

><p><em>(The First of September) With the Winchesters...<em>

The brothers watched as the hat on the stool began to sing. It began to sing for god's sake. Dean covered his mouth with a fist and shook his head as the coolness scale of the wizard world dropped down a peg with every word the hat sang. _Bastard hat must get paid a lot to do that_, Dean thought. Sam, for one, almost felt embarrassed for the poor hat. In fact he would have felt fully embarrassed for it if he were not so wrapped up in the history of Hogwarts, which the hat sang of.

_"Said Slytherin, "We'll teach just those _

_Whose ancestry is purest."_

_Said Ravenclaw, "We'll teach those whose_

_Intelligence is surest."_

_Said Gryffindor, "We'll teach all those _

_With brave deeds to their name."_

_Said Hufflepuff, "I'll teach the lot,_

_And treat them just the same."_

"This is pathetic," Dean murmured to Sam.

"Shhh," Sam whispered back not completely hearing what Dean had said.

The hat continued on singing more about how divided the houses had become over the years since the founders had established the school together and exactly what qualities a person would need to belong to a house.

_"The Houses that, like pillars four,_

_ Had once held up our school,_

_ Had turned upon each other and,_

_ Divided, sought to rule._

_ And for a while it seemed the school _

_ Must meet an early end, _

_ What with dueling and with fighting_

_ And the clash of friend on friend"_

The Sorting Hat described how Slytherin soon left after that and things cooled down a bit so that the school could manage for many more years. Then it started singing its job description, which included how its main purpose in life was to be there to sort them, as the founders would have seen fit, despite the fact that it thought that division would eventually lead to the school's demise.

_"For our Hogwarts is in danger_

_ From external, deadly foes_

_ And we must unite inside her_

_ Or we'll crumble from within_

_ I have told you, I have warned you…_

_ Let the Sorting now begin."_

"Well that was cheerful," Dean muttered just before applause erupted throughout the hall laced with whispers in the air. "Does the hat _usually_ give advice on how to run a school."

"Dean, don't you get it?" Sam asked, looking at his brother with wide eyes.

"Well it's obvious the hat's paranoid if that's what your saying."

"The Houses are so divided that they'll be the end of each other," Sam explained hastily. Sam opened his mouth to explain further but was cut off by McGonagall's voice shouting for the fist student, some "Abercrombie, Euan" to come up.

The kid sat on the stool with each gaze within the Great Hall stuck on him in anticipation before the hat shouted, "_GRYFFINDOR!_"

The Sorting continued like that, with an occasional pause for the hat to decide upon a House for a first year. In those instances, Sam could have sworn he heard his brother's stomach rumbling loudly in protest for being forced to wait for food after not eating for the entire day.

"Zeller, Rose," McGonagall called.

"Finally," Dean muttered, as the last kid came up and was put into the Hufflepuff house.

Dumbledore soon stood up before the entire hall after McGonagall had taken the Sorting Hat and stool away. He looked grand, even from behind, in his deep purple robes with stars scattered on them. "To our newcomers," he said, with his voice ringing out like the bells of a church on the hour, "welcome. To our old comers, welcome back. There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!"

There was a little laughter and applause throughout hall, but that ended as soon as the food appeared on the tables in front of the hungry students. Both brothers' eyes widened and jaws dropped, not because of the rate at which the food arrived, but because of the quantity of it. Both boys had grown up on TV diners, Lucky Charms, and an occasional carrot so the amount as well as the quality of the food was about as shocking as Zeus in the middle of a major lightning storm. Every type of dish you could imagine all sat right within the Winchesters reach—fresh vegetables, cooked meats, pitchers of pumpkin juice, breads from around the world, steaming sauces in a variety of colors, and more. And they wouldn't have to pay a cent for any of it. Dean sighed and murmured something about dying and having gone to heaven before stuffing his plate with anything and everything he could. Sam scooped some mashed potatoes onto his plate and continued talking about division between the Houses half-heartedly, though Dean didn't pay him any mind. Neither of them even cared that there were ghosts floating about the hall; this was simply too good an opportunity to pass up.

"Oh my god, Sam, shut up and eat," Dean finally said towards the end of the meal when his brother's rant started sounding like an annoying buzzing by his ear. He didn't bother to look at Sam's reaction; instead taking the time to chop off a piece of meat from his nearly finished double cheeseburger and feed it to Zimmerman.

"I'm serious, Dean," Sam continued, just before delicately spooning the last of his peas into his mouth. After chewing and swallowing he said, "The inter-house rivalry can't be healthy, If it gotten to a point where it's self-destructive, we ought to try to, I dunno, change it."

"Okay, Sam, _fine_. We'll try to change it," Dean said, mid-chew, speaking comprehendible due to practice with talking to Sam with food in his mouth. "Now be an American and enjoy the free food."

Just then another wave of food manifested onto the table, consisting of multiple types of desserts—from ice creams, to treacle tarts, to brownie platters, to—

"Pie! Hell yeah," Dean said grinning manically and taking a thick slice of steaming apple pie for himself. "They must have known I was coming."

Sam smirked, and watched his brother stuff his mouth to an exploding point with the warm, gooey treat he was so fond of. "How are you still eating?"

"Shoow derisheous, 'aummiep," Dean managed to choke out with a satisfied look coming over his face. "Shoow gooulh."

After the dessert-portion of the meal was over, the voices of students began to grow throughout the hall. Dumbledore rose to his feet again and all conversations came to a halt. He asked for the attention of his students for a few more moments while they began to digest the feast. "…And all first years should know that the Forbidden Forest on the Hogwarts grounds is in fact forbidden—older students ought to have learned this by now as well, but in case they haven't they should be taking note.

"Mr. Filch has asked me, for what he says is the five hundredth and twenty-second time, to inform you that no magic is permitted to be performed throughout the corridors between classes as well as many other things that can be checked on the rather long list posted to Mr. Filch's office door.

"As you may or may not have already discovered, the Hogwarts staff has made some changes this year. Taking over the Care of Magical Creatures class is Professor Grubbly-Plank, who is well practiced in the course seeing as she used to teach it many—but not _too_ many—years ago. We will also be welcoming three new Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, Professor Dean Winchester, Professor Sam Winchester, and Professor Dolores Umbridge."

Dean started to rise at the mild applause but was immediately yanked back down by Sam, who had noticed the Grubbly-Plank woman hadn't rose after her name had been called and neither had Umbridge.

"Tryouts for your House's Quidditch teams will be taking place—"

The tiny lady sitting to the left of Sam stood up a second before the Headmaster stopped his speech. Sam recognized her from Madam Malkin's several weeks' back, but nobody else in the hall seemed to realize that she had even stood up—probably because she wasn't all too much taller standing than sitting. She gave a curt little "_Hem, hem_," and everyone turned to see that Dumbledore had, for the first time in Hogwarts history, been interrupted by a new teacher with the intention of making a speech. Dumbledore looked momentarily surprised himself but regained his composure and sat back down, looking at Umbridge as if what she said was actually of interest to him. Dean took into account how many of the older professors looked shocked and disapproving at the new professor's temerity as well as how some of the students seemed a little amused. She began speaking in a high-pitched voice that pierced the air throughout the hall. Two words into the speech Dean was already asking Sam whether or not he could shoot her—which he received a sharp "no" to for whatever odd reason.

"…And to see such happy little faces looking back at me!"

Dean looked at the students, all of which either looked miserably bored, drop dead tired, or taken aback by being spoken to as if they were toddlers. Dean would have smirked at the silent defiance if he weren't so drowsy and bored out of his head himself.

"…I'm sure we'll all be very, _very_ good friends."

Dean expelled a loud yawn that gained a bit of the students' attention as Professor Umbridge cleared her throat once more in that girlish tone of hers. She adopted a more business-like authority to her voice as she spoke some well-practiced verses about how their magical abilities were gifts not to be abused, and that their knowledge in using these gifts ought to be properly nurtured and practiced in order to keep the wizarding community alive. At this, Zimmerman released a regal squawk and began circling the dining hall for a good stretch of his wings, consequently stealing all the attention from each student within the walls—several students gasped, others cowered in fear, and more than one simply laughed it off.

"Mr. _Winchester_," Umbridge piped forcefully, "will you please call back your _pet_ so I may resume my speech?"

At first Dean didn't respond, but after Sam nudged him painfully in the ribs, he awoke from where he had been napping propped up against his fist, "Wha'? I'm here. Is it over?"

Sam rolled his eyes for the millionth time that day and pointed to his brother's bird. "Call him back, Dean."

"Why?"

"Because I need to resume my _speech_," Umbridge snapped.

"No need to be a sour puss," said Dean, raising his hands in surrender. He stood up, put two fingers in his mouth, and let out a loud whistle rip through every the ears of every student, professor, ghost, and a certain hawk. Zimmerman, recognizing his superior's call, flapped his wings and turned mid-flight to rejoin Dean on his shoulder. Sitting down, Dean said, "Hey there, Zimm. You causing trouble?"—The hawk squawked once more—"Good."

"_Hem, hem_," Umbridge coughed, trying to regain the ears of the students that were amused by the hawk's timing.

"Would everyone please simmer down?" Dumbledore finally interrupted, after letting Umbridge stand like a fool for a few more seconds than necessary. The hall quieted and Dumbledore thanked them.

"As I was saying," Umbridge continued a bit more forcefully. She droned on and on in her speech until Dean had fallen back asleep on his propped up fist and even Sam had to fight to keep his heavy eyelids from falling over his moss green eyes. "…Preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what ought be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."

At long last, she sat down. Dumbledore began clapping—seeing as he was probably one of the only ones in the hall who was awake enough to realize that the speech was finally over. A few students joined in hesitantly, but no one seemed to be aware of what exactly had been said or why they should applaud it. Dumbledore stood up and picked up where he had left off after thanking the new professor for her "illuminating" speech.

"Dean, wake up," Sam pestered, nudging his brother awake once more.

Dean smacked his brother in the arm and groaned, "Stop doing that!"

"It's over," Sam said, getting up as the rest of the hall began shuffling out of there.

"Thank _god_," Dean sighed, stretching out his arms as he got up.

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><p><em>AN: There you have it. Yes, I know I quoted the sorting hat, Dumbledore, and Umbridge so if any of you are JK Rowling, her lawyer buddies that I'm sure she has, or just random people who feel like suing me…please don't. I don't own it and know that good and well. As for Umbridge, I know you thought it was going to be a much bigger confrontation, but that's in a few chapters (evil me makes you wait longer)! All I'm gonna say is that it was super duper mega fun to write ;) (Wow, just realized how long this chapter is 0_o) Have a good day! Pożegnanie :)_


	16. Two Winchesters Plus Angels Minus Sleep

_A/N: Merhaba :) (And now you know the Turkish word for hello)_

_Week's been pretty good. I've invested in two winter coats for the first time since…I think since I was born. According to the jacked math I did with a friend, they should last me twenty years apiece (Neither of us can do math for shit…maybe that's why I write…) In other news, I spent Thanksgiving in the Poconos yesterday and the night before (Happy Thanksgiving by the way) and it was both slow, scary (not really), and delicious. Long story short, I ate, I adventured, and I conquered (like three "scary" movies. Insidious sucks by the way). Last Friday I went to my school's play and Cabaret bounced up into my top three favorite plays ever (right next to A Very Potter Musical and Sequel…yep, Imma dork like that). In other news, I've been in emotional turmoil since the last Supernatural ep. (Bobby! AHHHHH). Oh, and I am officially a fan of Bones._

_Lieutenant Winter: Hehe. Thx :D_

_Suuki-Aldrea: All Umbridge was saying was that she was gonna make a speech._

_Lisa Demonic Angel: Okay I can see your point but I don't entirely agree. Of course he's a little jealous of harry's fame: he's one of the youngest out of seven kids and gets less attention from his own mother next to Harry. I don't really agree with the way Ron reacted when Harry got into the tri-wizard tournament though. Common sense should have smacked him in the face and asked him why the hell Harry of all people would jump into a life-or-death competition. He is supposed to be Harry's bff but he also wants to be his own person as well and next to the savior of the wizard world that's kinda hard. But it's understandable that he was envious of the attention. Thanks for the praise though. I need Dean loosening the atmosphere a bit._

_Mignun: You'll find out everything in the next chap (All I'm saying is that it was super fun to write…mwahaha)_

_Antra: You'll just have to wait and see (*add more evil laughter here*) _

_Illucida: Thanks :)_

_INMH: You sense correct (*menacing chuckle*)_

_BlackWolf2013: Thx!_

_Shadowess 88: Ohmygod I wish I thought of that! Maybe I'll squeeze that into the future… Anyway, the only things that they know about the wizard world politics is everything that Dumbledore told them back in one of the first chapters (maybe the third). Sam's research had been mainly focused on stuff for lessons as of now._

_Once again, I thank and love all of you who Reviewed, Read, Story-Alerted, or Favorited! _

_Disclaimer: Why didn't you believe me the first fifteen times I told you I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter!_

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><p><em>(The First of September) continued…<em>

"Sam, Dean, a word please?" The Headmaster queried as the Great Hall slowly drained, footsteps making a low rumble similar to that of a the Hogwarts Express when it first left the station that morning. The boys nodded and allowed Dumbledore to herd them off to the side, out of earshot of certain pissed and prying pink teachers.

"What's up?" Dean asked casually. He could practically hear Sam fretting about whether or not they were about to be fired on their first day for Zimmerman's little aerial adventure though he wasn't all to concerned himself.

"You did understand the meaning behind Ms. Umbridge's speech, correct?" he inquired seriously.

"Um…something about perfecting prunes, right?" Dean winged.

"Yeah, we got it," Sam said, shooting a fully-certified bitchface at his brother, "or at least I did."

"Wanna fill me in?"

"Umbridge and the Ministry are interfering with the school," Sam clarified.

"Oh," Dean said. "Well that's no good."

"No, it's not," agreed Dumbledore. He slipped both Winchesters a sheet of folded paper each. "Those are your course schedules for when you will be teaching lessons."

"Thanks," Sam said unfolding his and scanning it over. He nodded and said, "Work for seven periods and three meal breaks."

"Great," Dean said in approval not bothering to check his own schedule.

"One more thing," Sam said nervously, part of him feeling like an oversized idiot. "Is there any, uh, Internet service for my, um, laptop."

"Internet?"

Sam bit his lip, hoping it might ring some bells in the old wizards head. Most grandfather's didn't understand the Internet, so how exactly could he expect an elderly wizard secluded from Muggle society to know about it? Sam sighed. Maybe the wizard world wasn't all too different from the Muggle world after all.

"I'll work on it," Dumbledore said with a tender smile. His eyes flickered to the side and he frowned, quickly whispering, "Don't forget the terms of your teaching" as Umbridge beelined towards them.

"Hiya," Dean said in mock cheerfulness to the flustered looking little professor. "You must be Miss. Umbitc—."

After quickly realizing what Dean was about to say, Sam cut off of brother with a nervous smile and hasty, "—I'm Sam. He's Dean. We're Winchesters. Look forward to working with you. Bye."

Umbridge looked taken aback for a moment, her toad-like eyes popping even further from her head than they did naturally, but Sam had already pulled Dean halfway out of the Great Hall before she had a chance to respond. As they exited the hall, Dean stopped his brother and asked, "Do you have any idea where you're going?"

Sam opened his mouth but shut it as he noticed Dean's point. Dean unfolded his schedule and saw some extra notes elegantly scribbled down at the bottom. "Found what rooms we'll be in," Dean said. "You're in Room 14 and I'm in 16 of the staff house."

"We're not sharing a room?"

A smile grew climatically on Dean's face and a light flicked to life in his eyes. "Not for an entire year. _Whoo_-hoo!"

Sam might've been more pissed at his brother if he weren't so excited himself. He had shared a room with Dean over the course of his entire life—which he could remember at least. Well, at least aside from when he'd gone to Stanford and shared a apartment with Jess or the time he'd run away for a few weeks and stood in a dingy little motel with his two-week pet dog, Bones—both times being quite liberating experiences if his memory served him correctly.

"Now how do we get there?" Sam wondered.

"Hey! You! Midget!" Dean shouted, pointing to an uncertain student with a yellow and black tie on. "What's your name?"

"Stebbins, sir. Stebbins Harper," he said unsurely.

"You know where the staff house is?"

"There's a staff house?"

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled Sam along, not wanting to waste another second with the useless boy, Stebbins Harper. A hand clamped over each of the new professors' shoulders and they were turned around by a man about ten years older then them with slicked back black hair divided by a neat widow's peak and piercing narrow brown eyes. His regal blue robe-sleeves dangled from his arms where his hand's reached up to the Winchesters.

"Sam and Dean Winchester?"

"Who are you?" Dean asked, throwing a confused look to his brother.

The man smiled a bit, softening his strict features and extended his hand out professionally. "I'm Septimas Vector. I teach Arithmancy."

"Math?" asked Sam.

"Similar," he responded. "I'll be leading you to the staff house."

"Great," Dean said dryly. "Could you tell me what Dean plus two nerds equals?"

Septimas smirked and said, "A guaranteed success rate at reaching your dorms in one piece each."

Dean paused then nodded approvingly. "Okay. You're good in my books."

"Ditto," Sam said, with a mega-watt grin.

The three of them talked their way through the corridors and crannies of the ancient building. Apparently the staff house was only used for teachers of non-major subjects or that couldn't fit in the room attached to major classrooms. Sam shrugged that off, figuring that Miss. Umbridge would be staying in the room for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Dean would have been more pissed about that if he weren't so ecstatic about getting his own room. At one point Sam had brought up going to Stanford and an impressed look wiped itself across Septimas' face. He soon explained that he was born to Muggles and had a younger sister who had tried to get in there years back. Finally, after their long trek that somehow managed to take forever but kept them on the ground floor, they reached two stone gargoyles guarding the dark mahogany doors behind them.

"Password," the gargoyles croaked in unison making Sam and Dean flinch for their weapons violently.

"Jelly Babies," the mathematics teacher responded. As the gargoyles jumped out of their path, Septimas explained, "You'll be informed whenever the passwords change, but make sure you don't forget when they do. The gargoyles are unforgiving to the forgetful."

The doors creaked open and they followed the more experienced professor into its insides. "This is the staff room. Teachers are more than permitted to be in here during the daytime, so long as they are not supposed to be teaching a class. At night, this is more of a common room for professors who are not heads of houses or Professor Dumbledore—though if the Headmaster wished to drop in, he is more than welcome to. If you'll follow me down this hallway, we'll be in the sleeping quarters. The right side is for women and the left is for men."

They followed him down the hall until they reached the middle of the corridor. "These are ours," Sam said, as they reach rooms 14 and 16, which were lined up right next to each other.

"Your trunks should already be in there. I'm in room 4 if you need anything," Septimas said, as he retired to his room. "Good night."

They both wished him a well night as well before turning to one another.

"Well, Sam, this is it," Dean said with a mock sniffle. "We've finally reached a beautiful, _beautiful_ point in our lives where we get free food, steady jobs, you get to go to school, _and_ we have separate rooms. This is a monumental day in history—like, like Jimmy Hendrix at Woodstock."

Sam rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching his brother. "Yeah, whatever. Goodnight."

"Good night to you too, Sammy," Dean said with a blissful sigh, opening the door to his new room.

Both rooms were identical though neither brother realized it—with a queen-sized bed, a wooden desk in the corner, a plain chair in front of it, a wardrobe, a bedside dresser, and a mirror. The only difference was that Dean's room contained not just one mirror, but also a second against the wall. Dean inspected it and found a note on the bottom corner:

_This is a foe glass. I have, shall we say, tinkered with it so you are able to hear through to your brother's room if his noise level reaches a certain limit. I am well aware that Sam has a habit of having nightmares so I've taken the liberty of putting a Sticking-charm on it so to ease your mind. I hope this helps._

_-Professor Dumbledore_

Dean snatched off the note crumpling and tossing it into a nearby bin that released a little burp as the paper was consumed. He couldn't help but to wonder if his life would be ever be normal before sighing, tucking himself into the bed, and drifting into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p><em>(The First of September) In Heaven…<em>

"Brother," an angel wearing a dark skinned vessel with a rumbling deep voice said as softly as he could. "You come with news?"

"Yes," Castiel said plainly, approaching his newly appointed superior.

"Good news?"

Cas sighed. "No. Dean and Sam would have made it to Hogwarts by now."

"And you cannot get in?"

"No," Cas said.

"Why?"

Cas looked into his brother, Uriel's, eyes and explained, "There is Enochian warding over all the wizard community aside from a single shop named Borgin & Burkes."

"No matter."

Cas perked up a bit at that, curiosity filling his vessel's blue eyes. "No matter? What are you saying?"

"I am saying that I have reason to believe the psychic, Pamela Barnes, was supposed to have been killed recently, according to God's plan. If we cannot go to the Winchesters, we must make them come to us."

Cas hesitated, unsure of how to process the information. "Murder? You wish to murder the woman?"

"No. God wished to have her dead already. She is living past her expiration even now as we speak. She must die. I, not wanting her to die in vain, hope to use her death as a means of drawing in the brothers."

Castiel paused. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because, brother, you have an important role to play in this," Uriel stated. "The psychic needs to believe she has a fighting chance of survival. In order to get her to this point, she will need some sort of advanced warning such as a pre-planted vision of her death by certain hands. Then she will call either of the brothers and they will come to her aid. Once they have left wizard grounds, kill the woman and bring me Dean."

"Why me?"

"Because both Winchesters have a certain level of trust in you. We can use this to our advantage."

"You would like for me to murder her?"

Uriel nodded sternly, coal colored eyes locked on Cas's ocean-shaded ones.

"Any angel should be able to kill the woman. Is there any more of a reason as to having me, out of all the angels of Heaven's army, kill her?"

Uriel eyed the angel, the solider of Heaven, before him with eyebrows raised almost as if amused. That amusement soon vanished from his face and he said, "This is a direct order, Castiel. It does not require any questioning on your part."

Cas looked down, contemplating whether or not he should be ashamed of his inquiry. "As you wish."

Castiel began to walk away before halting himself and turning back around.

"Is there something more you'd like to say?" Uriel asked, in that no-nonsense tone of his.

Cas opened his mouth but shut it, deciding that choice was for the better. "No, sir. Goodnight."

Uriel chucked deeply as the angel vanished off to fulfill his will.

* * *

><p><em>(The First of September) Around midnight with Sam...<em>

Sam was squirming a little in his sleep as not-so-picture-perfect moments of his life flashed behind his closed lids in the dark room. They weren't as intense as his old visions used to be, but they still would've scared the living daylights out of him had he been watching them while awake. His imagination had been shut off for a while—years in fact—and, naturally, stopped bullshitting his with English class symbolism in dreams and all that other crap Dean thought nine out of ten "psychics" made up to get jobs. All he had was cold, hard memories sorted in his mind, popping up whenever he was caught of guard like while he slept.

Despite this, he had been getting more sleep over the past few weeks alone than he had in years. Some part—apparently the stronger part—of Sam's mind had given up and simply wanted to use the opportunity of external stability to rest knowing he was safe—well he didn't _really_ know that he was safe if you want to get technical, but he still felt safer than when we was, let's say, hunting a Wendigo or in a free falling plane or about to be carved up like a Jack-O-Lantern by an invisible clown.

His senses, his abilities had been heightened after taking a tiny sip from the flask Ruby had supplied him with during the feast, and mixed within his dreams was a throaty chuckle—one that he knew, but couldn't put a face to. Or maybe it was someone he didn't know, but eventually would. He couldn't quite tell.

These thoughts swelled in the hazy fog that was Sam's newly woken-up mind. He was still laying down, but only because he was very weary, and, from what he could see from beyond the moderately-sized window fastened to the wall furthest from him, it was still night out. He laid there for what could have been hours rummaging through old thoughts, meditating, and generally keeping his mind busy. He wasn't going to be getting anymore sleep that night anyway.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yeah, yeah transitional chapter. But at least you got some Cas action right? And you'll be seeing more of Septimas in the future. In case you were wondering, I didn't completely make him up; in the JK version he's really a her and named Septima Vector. I just needed more guy teachers out and about. Next chapters more exciting (if I could reach through the computer, I would pinky-promise all of you). If you wanna Review, go for it. Güle güle._


	17. Survival 101

_A/N: Tere :) (That is Estonian…yeah, I've never heard of it either)_

_So not much happening on this end of the computer. I helped out at my school's GSA bake sale after school though so that was pretty fun. Yeah…_

_Disclaimer: Don't own nothin'. Ya' hear! Not Supernatural, not Harry Potter, not even my socks (okay, well maybe I own my socks, but nothin' else!)_

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><p><em>(The Second of September) With Dean…<em>

The door to his room had opened and Dean's senses ignited, his ears perking and his hand scooting under his pillow—though upon first glance, one wouldn't be able to tell seeing as he had barely moved. His calloused fingers tightened around the 10-inch Bowie knife he'd stuffed under his pillow, and he prepared himself to strike the moment he needed to. Now it was just a matter of timing.

"I got my laptop and our duffels in my room. What's that?" Sam questioned casually, causing Dean to relax himself and peek over his shoulder. Sure enough his brother's tall, lanky frame stood within the door, with his eyes glued on something Dean wasn't seeing.

"Good morning to you too, Sam," he groaned, shifting his body over and finding what it was that Sam was looking at—a trunk about the same size as Dean's, but with pure silver latches and some demon-warding symbols engraved into it. Dean swung his legs to one side of the bed, plucking sand-crust from the edges of his dusty-green eyes before he heaved himself up from bed. "Wasn't there when I got here."

He went over to it and began undoing the latches only to be stopped by Sam's question, "You're just gonna open it? What if it's cursed?"

"Sam, we've been here for _one_ night. Who wants to curse us?"

"Okay, _hmmm_, let's think. Oh yeah, that's right. Maybe _everyone_."

"Obviously not," said Dean, picking a note off the corner and scanning it over. "It's from Dumbledore."

Dean finished unlocking the trunk and he slowly lifted the lid, his eyes widening like a poor kid in a candy shop for the first time in his life.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered.

Within the inside of the trunk was a fully loaded arsenal fit for a small foot army. There were at least seven different types of guns—some Glock 17s, several Colt 1911's (Dean's personal favorite), a few Taurus Model 92's (which Sam had taken to about a year or two back), Desert Eagles, Winchester Model 1897 shotguns by the truckload, and so much more. The trunk was practically exploding with guns. Not only that but there was also somehow room for at least fifteen crossbows, machetes, silver knives, and about thirty or so tasers, EMF readers, Infrared Thermo-scanners, mini-camcorders, black lights, and rosary beads. Their fake ID box from the Impala was squeezed in there so tight that if it could talk it would have been cursing up at storm with complaints regarding personal space. There were dozens upon dozens of little, shiny, tin containers in one corner of the arsenal trunk labeled "Rock-Salt Bullets", "Silver Bullets", "Wax Bullets", "Blanks", and "Bullets". Next to them sat about a gallon of water that claimed to be Hoy Water, another gallon of liquid in a white metal container, which may or may not have been Propane, several bags of rock salt, and lock picking sets by the dozen. Mojo bags hung from the lid and throwing stars where packed into a leather pouch stuck to that very same portion of the trunk. If they were caught anywhere else in London—or anywhere else in the _world_ for that matter—with that many weapons, they would be immediately deported, arrested, or gunned down on the spot.

Dean plucked two silver whistles from the weaponry trunk and sighed. "It's beautiful."

* * *

><p><em>(The Second of September) With Harry and co. ...<em>

Harry's day was already sucky from the moment he'd decided to get out of bed—actually since the night before when Seamus and he had quite the row about whether or not he was a nutter. Ron, Hermione, and he had headed down to the Great Hall for a spot of breakfast. The boys ate while Hermione dipped behind her issue of _The Daily Prophet_—though, after reading it, she found that there had been no news of either Harry or Dumbledore, which was refreshing. Angelina Johnson informed Harry of the upcoming Quidditch tryouts and told him that she wanted him there to see how the veterans of last year's team faired with the new players that they were going to be adding. Ron had received a letter from his brother Bill saying that, after all his gloating of being part of _The Daily Prophet_ Percy had been fired. Almost immediately though, Percy had been recruited for a job as Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic. Apparently Bill, and the rest of the Weasley clan that wasn't residing in the Hogwarts premises thought it was a way for Fudge to spy on their family. Percy highly resented that as his ego skyrocketed and continued living, not in the Burrow, but in London.

After the meal had finished, Harry, Ron and Hermione got their class schedules from McGonagall at the staff table only to find out that Mondays for the rest of the year were going to be downright dreadful.

"Double Defense, Double Potions, Divination and Double History of Magic," Ron complained as they headed off to their first period. "That's these new blokes, Snape, Trelawney, and Binns in one day! That ought to be illegal! Fred and George better get those Skiving Snackboxes done soon."

"_Ron_, we are _Prefects_."

"Yeah, and with a bloody schedule like this we'll be _lunatics_ by the end of the year," Ron shot back, madly waving his schedule about in his hand.

Umbridge's Defense Against the Dark Arts class started first, dragged on, and by the time it had finished, Harry had a week worth of detention for speaking truthfully about Cedric's death and Voldemort's rise—something about him being out of term for not raising his hand. He was fuming by the time he left class and considered cutting the next, but decided against it seeing as he was still a little bit curious about the Muggle professors—plus, he didn't quite have it in him to intentionally miss a class, especially on the first day.

The Winchester's looked fierce towering over the fifth years that were gathering in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch—not only that, but they were obviously the black sheep in the white herd so to speak. They both ditched the status quo robes, and wore everyday jeans that Muggle-born or half-blood students were accustomed to seeing back in the world on the other side of the Hogwarts Express barrier. The tallest of the pair—Sam, if Harry's memory served to be true—had a green flannel button up shirt and matching moss green eyes that both pondered and disciplined them. The second, Dean, had a solid blue unbuttoned button-up with the sleeves half-way rolled up—revealing great and intimidating arm muscle—and underneath a black T-shirt with a logo for something called "The Rolling Stones". His eyes grayish-greenish eyes held a gaze that was so sharp that it looked as if it could cut each and every one of them if they so much as looked at him funny.

"Are they permitted to wear those?" asked Hermione in a very mom-like tone as she joined Harry and Ron. "I don't think they are."

"If Umbridge is allowed to wear that much pink, then what they're wearing ought to be fine," Ron whispered back, still quite a bit confused by the Muggle attire.

Finally the last of the straggling students reached the pitch filled with nervous and chatty students. Most girls flocked together to giggle and rate which professor they thought was cuter because there was no denying that the brothers were in fact quite handsome; for the most part, the boys seemed a little agitated and self-conscious as they talked amongst themselves. The hawk from the Great Hall incident circled overhead watching everything below with a trained eye, ready to swoop down the moment he sensed something was amiss. Everything was casual, calm even, until Professor Dean blew his whistle and barked the first order of the year.

"Four lines! NOW!"

Everyone scrambled to meet the order, scared of what might happen if they didn't. Each House assembled in neat lines figuring that was the reason behind the instruction—four lines being the equivalent of four Houses. Harry stood somewhere towards the middle of the Gryffindors, trying to guess what was about to come from this lesson. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy watching the Winchester professors with a look of disgust mixed with anger smeared on his face, his nose scrunched in disgust and a deep frown etched into his face. Harry could only imagine what his own face must have looked like as his eyes narrowed in on Professor Sam, whom Harry was convinced had provoked a jolt through his scar at dinner the previous night.

"YOU!" Professor Dean roared, stabbing a finger in Malfoy's general direction. Several Slytherins flinched and looked amongst themselves to see whom the professor was talking to. "Did I give any of you permission to move?"

All the Slytherins froze, and everyone on the pitch straightened his or her spine so not to provoke the professor further. No one even dared to breath too deeply for fear that the noise would get them detention or whatever other form of punishment that the Winchesters had in store.

"You are to keep your eyes ahead of you at all times. Do not speak unless you are spoken to. UNDERSTAND?"

There were a few mumbled 'yes's scattered about but Professor Dean wasn't having any flabby responses like that.

"I asked a question. DO YOU UNDERSTAND!"

"YES, SIR!" all of the students on the Pitch chanted back in unison.

"We were hired here to teach you how to defend yourselves," Professor Sam shouted, demanding the attention over everyone on the Pitch. "We are aware of this Voldemort—"

He was cut off as several students shrieked, more flinched or gasped, and one even managed to topple over. Apparently, the Winchesters' weren't too keen on this type of reaction though.

"Thirty push-ups! EVERYONE!" Professor Dean hollered.

Harry and all the other students dropped to the grass and began pushing themselves up and down as best as they could without question in time with the count-off that Professor Dean began chanting. Harry's twiggy arms had never realized how much pain was involved in the basic workout procedure.

When everyone had finished, Professor Sam continued, "We are aware of this Voldemort issue"—he paused, listening for any out-of-term response—"and couldn't care less about him. There are creatures far worse than him. In fact, by the time you've finished this class, Voldemort will be a cakewalk. Us? Not so much."

Harry's felt as though he had been doused with cold water when he heard that. What could possibly be worse than Voldemort? How could his new _Muggle_ professors think that what he and the rest of the wizarding world was dealing with—or _would_ be dealing with as soon as the Ministry accepted Voldemort was back for round 2—was a "cakewalk"? Suddenly jaws of fury bit and nipped Harry as he continued to mentally seethe about his new professors.

Professor Sam continued, ignorant to Harry's silent opinions, "Everyday you will be drilled both physically and mentally. You will run for miles without complaint. You will exercise so much that you will find yourself begging and praying for mercy. Look for sympathy elsewhere because you will receive none here.

"There will be no House rivalry. In fact, so long as you are in this class, Houses will not exist. You will work together or you will fail. Why? Because in the real world, which this school so _fantastically_ shelters you from, you will find that if you do not work together, you will not survive. So long as you're still sucking air, you are fighting to survive. You may have been given life, but that _does_ _not_ mean it cannot be taken from you. If you don't think our methods are fair, suck it up. This life isn't fair and you are here to prepare yourselves, to _give _yourself a chance.

"You will learn to fight and to survive in this class. This brings us to our first lesson. There will come a point in your lives where you will have to fight, and there will come a point in your lives where you will have to run. Today, you train for the latter."

"Eight laps! _NOW_!" Professor Dean barked.

Someone, who either had quite a bit of pluck or was simply stupid, let out an audible groan—audible enough for Professor Dean to pinpoint the exact location of the exact person. He prowled up to Goyle—making all Slytherins within spitting distance stiffen up further—and slowly asked, "Did I give you permission to complain?"

Goyle's eyes were about as wide as a planet each and he shook his head violently, jarring whatever brain he claimed to have inside.

"What was that?" the drill sergeant-like professor drawled slowly.

"N-no," Goyle stuttered going pale as baby powder.

Professor Dean stood there for a few extra tension filled moments, almost as if waiting—or even _daring_—for Goyle to wet himself. The Slytherin boy didn't move, obviously scared out of his wits—if he had any 'wits' that is.

"Rule number one: no complaining. Rule number two: you will address us both as 'sir' when answering a question. Rule number three: anyone who cuts corners gets detention!" the professor shouted still so close to Goyle's face that the pudgy boy probably felt the hot air steaming from Professor Dean's mouth. "Twelve laps!"

Harry could feel a breeze of air flying up behind him as Hermione's hand shot up. She quickly stuttered, "B-but, sir, we don't h-have our running clothes on."

Harry held his breath as he watched Professor Dean make his way over and down the Gryffindor line. The professor stood inches behind him, and Harry could practically hear him breathing. "NAME!" he demanded.

"H-Hermione Gr-Granger," she said, faltering.

"Well, Granger, next time you will know better then to come to class unprepared," he drawled in a thick American accent. "_RUN!_"

No one complained after that, not even when they came panting around the Pitch at the beginning of the second lap—all of them ready to pass out from heat strokes and general exhaustion. A Hufflepuff did hunch over to take a breath once but the hawk swooped down and pursued him like he was food. That kid didn't dare stop again after that. Ron and Harry found each other somewhere in the seventh or eighth lap, but due to enervation, could barely exchange glances, let alone words. Neither of them had an idea where Hermione was until Professor Dean's voice rang out with a "Pick up the pace, Granger!" She sped past them looking quite frightened as the hawk tailed her close behind.

Harry, Ron, and pretty much every other student on the Pitch looked about ready to collapse by the time the twelve laps were finished, - some nearly did actually - but apparently their lesson was far from finished. The professors paired everyone up with a student from a different house—Harry ending up with Ernie Macmillan, a prefect from Hufflepuff, Ron with Anthony Goldstein, a prefect from Ravenclaw, and Hermione with Daphne Greengrass of Slytherin. None of them had it in them to complain so Harry held down Ernie's feet for sit-ups while the professors demanded answers from the sweating, beyond exhausted students.

Professor Dean came around the bend and bombarded Ernie Macmillan with questions regarding the means of destroying something he called a "Djinn". Ernie had known absolutely nothing about it and was pelted with rock-hard insults regarding his slightly above average pudgy-waist line. Ernie was clearly distraught by the end, and looked more scared than he would have if he'd been introduced to the devil or even Voldemort. Harry couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the poor bloke.

"Switch partners!" Professor Dean shouted.

Ernie took Harry's previous place with his knees on Harry's shoes while Harry began his sit-ups. The Hufflepuff began a steady count off for the Gryffindor, but seemed quite beat after his own workout and occasionally skipped a number or two.

Harry moved as required, up and down, up and down, until his abs felt like they'd been accidently struck with a rogue Jelly-Legs Jinx. He felt something along the lines of nervous mashed somewhere within his tired bones as Professor Sam strolled towards him. The professor had just finished interrogating the Ravenclaw Terry Boot about the means of permanently ridding the Earth of a ghost—Terry hadn't known the answer and was forced to repeat that he didn't know until he'd been reduced to the point of tears.

"Name?" Professor Sam asked strictly as he had with all students before Harry.

"Harry Potter," he said tightly, not stopping his sit-ups for fear of his life. He suddenly remembered rule number two and added, "Sir."

"Can you say Voldemort's name, Potter?"

That wasn't like the other questions that he'd heard given to other students. He answered nonetheless. "Yes, sir."

"Say it."

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, sir."

His professor paused, and seemed to have nodded to himself a little, his lips barely curving upwards around the edges. They straightened out before Professor Sam gave the next question.

"You think you're special, Potter?"

Harry was thrown off guard by the question but forced himself to respond quickly. "No, sir."

"Why not?" Harry contemplated the question for a moment, ignoring when his professor continued to repeat his question as if it were some sort of mantra. "…Why not, Pot—."

"—Because I don't want to be," said Harry, not meaning to cut off his teacher. Professor Sam waited. "Sir."

"Are you a liar, Potter?"

Harry frowned, his back hitting the ground and springing him back up in what Ernie Macmillan counted as sit up number ninety-seven.

"No, sir."

"But you lie to yourself? And you've just lied to me now."

Harry took a moment to take in what he'd just heard. He was vaguely aware of his head nodding.

"Say it."

"I am a liar, sir."

"Again."

"I am a liar, sir.

"Again."

"I am a liar, sir."

That continued until around sit-up number 124 by Ernie's count, when Professor Sam accepted that admitting he was a liar wasn't Harry's sore spot. Harry had refused to break throughout his entire interrogation—during which he also found himself admitting he was "lazy" (because he answered 'yes' to being tired), he was "dumb" (because he didn't know how to kill a Striga), and he was "useless" (because he couldn't load a gun, make a fire, or set up a basic tent without magic). After his last question, Professor Sam moved on, without another word.

"Two hundred," Ernie counted off in an exhausted sigh.

"At_ten_tion!" Professor Dean hollered.

Harry sat up and watched his professors intently, while Ernie crossed his legs next to him. Quite out of breath still, Ernie managed to whipser, "They're something else, aren't they?"

Harry didn't say anything. He was suspicious of the pair and wanted to know what it was they were playing at. He decided to wait to share his suspicions with Ron and Hermione later on, when his tongue wasn't throbbing in pain along with every other muscle in his body. They continued on with synchronized jumping jacks, push-ups, and leg lifts (the worst of them all in Harry's opinion). Professor Dean had them do something called "Suicides" next. After his first round of them, Harry understood the reasoning behind the exercise's name.

"Line up!" Professor Dean shouted, blowing into his whistle. "We're gonna do some dodge ball."

"How do you play?" someone from the Ravenclaw group asked.

Professor Dean smirked for the first time over the last thirty-five minutes. "It's easy. Just remember the five D's of dodge ball: dodge, duck, dip, dive, dodge."

Rubber balls enchanted to fly at them full speed began hurtling towards them for the last ten minutes of class. Harry found himself more grateful then ever when his Quidditch skills kicked in full-gear and had him dodging left and diving right—only managing to get hit about thirty times out of the sixty or so balls that were aimed at him.

"Class dismissed!" Professor Dean announced, as a bell sounded distantly within the halls of Hogwarts.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yeah, I'm putting Review responses down here for now on. Mostly because I thought it was too long and distracting at the top._

_Lieutenant Winter: I hope this lived up to the expectations._

_Illucida: Thanks. Yeah, we'll see more of Cas in the future (the near future)_

_INMH: Thx :)_

_Suuki-Aldrea: Hope you enjoyed class, and and, as for Cas, you'll just have to wait and see (mwahaha)_

_BlackWolf2013: Hehe, thx_

_esperanza100: Thx_

_lisa demonic angel: yeah, lets leave it at that (cause I'm being lazy and not re-reading hp book 1 again right now)_

_Shadowess 88: Regarding last Supernatural ep: GRRR ERIK KRIPKE/SARA GAMBLE/WHO-EVER-ACTUALLY WROTE-THAT-EP! Those boys better save him somehow (or else I'll have to form a mob and protest to bring him back to life). As for the chapter: I haven't really thought too much about angel splinching yet, but maybe. I think I'll start making up some rules revolving around that one. As for the throaty chuckle, I did in fact drop a hint about it, but if you didn't catch it I'm not allowed to tell you (cause I'm evil…;) Hope you enjoyed the chappie_

_If you wanna review, go for it. That's all for now folks. Until next time, Hüvasti :)_


	18. What The Devil?

_A/N: 您好 :) (Yes, that is Chinese.)_

_First off, I'd like to start this with a moment of silence for the one and only Bobby Singer…._

_Next, is the plan for those of us who want to get him the hell back. We meet at the crow's nest at dawn. If you don't know where that is, I'd suggest you try the street next to the castle on a hill of forty-two dogs (you know the one). Don't be late. If you have wings, you are to take either the Stairway to Heaven or the Highway to Hell in search of Bobby. If you are a mere human, you are to gather the required materials needed to summon and bind Death. This is the plan. Don't screw it up._

_Disclaimer: If it doesn't look like I own it, then it's because I don't own it._

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><p><em>(The Second of September) With Harry and co. continued…<em>

The Gryffindors and Slytherins shuffled slowly, hunched over and panting as they made their way down to the dungeons for their first lesson of the year with Professor Snape. Everyone was walking in silence, too exhausted to move a single muscle that needn't be used—including his or her tongue.

The dungeon door creaked open after someone near the front reluctantly mustered up the will power to push it, and everyone poured in about as fast as a disabled slug swimming upstream through a marmalade river. The fifth years took a moment to enjoy the comfort of not standing or running or doing anything for the first time in forty-five minutes, practically falling unconscious as he or she did so.

"Sit down," Snape drawled coldly even though it was quite unnecessary—everyone was already seated and much too tired to bother with being loud. He closed the door shut, glided up to the front of the classroom, and looked over each of his students with a gaze that looked remarkably similar to Professor Dean's hawk—bringing back many bad memories for more than one of the students. Harry waited for further instruction, unable to think past his aching muscles and limbs on his own. "What the devil is wrong with all of you?"

No one responded, all too tired to bother to remember, let alone _describe_, the events of the last class.

"No answer? Granger, you are usually quick to volunteer—explain."

Hermione sighed. "Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Winchesters, sir."

Snape nodded curtly and flicked his wand at the blackboard next to him. "You are to follow the instructions on the board to make the Draught of Peace. You will find the supplies necessary to the concoction in the storage cupboard. Can anyone tell me what this potion does?"

Hermione raised her hand half-heartedly and, when called on, mumbled, "It is a potion used to calm anxiety, soothe agitation and ease weary muscles, but if one is not careful when putting in his or her ingredients, it can result in a permanent slumber. It is generally found on O.W.L.s."

"You have an hour and a half to complete this potion. Do not drink it when you are finished unless I have deemed it safe. Begin."

Harry and the rest of the worn students slowly wrenched themselves from heir seats, and scuffled to the supply cupboard gathering the required ingredients. Little did they realize, their professor had slunk out of the room and left them to their own devices.

* * *

><p><em>(The Second of September) With Snape…<em>

Snape made his way down corridor after corridor with his neat, black robes flapping gently behind him like a crow's wings with every thumping footstep he made until he reached Dumbledore's office. He told the gargoyles in his way the most recently appointed password that the Headmaster had come up with—being "Lemon Head"—so that they would allow him passage. The stairs spun him up in that ancient magic influenced way that they could until he reached Dumbledore's personal study.

"Albus, a word please," he said in a way that made it clear he wouldn't be taking 'no' as an answer.

"Of course, Severus. Please have a seat," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the chair just beyond his elegant desk filled with magical knickknacks. "Lemon drop?"

Snape shook his head, declining the Muggle sweet Dumbledore was so fond of. "Are you aware of the state in which the fifth year Slytherin and Gryffindor students arrived to my class in?"

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows curiously and shook his head. "No."

"They are currently past the point of exhaustion if you care to know," he said in his deep voice, prolonging the words as he usually did when speaking. "They are all practically dead on their feet. I cannot possibly prepare these students for their Ordinary Wizard Levels if this is the form that they will be attending lessons in."

"Perhaps I should have a word with Sam and Dean come lunchtime."

Snape scowled. "Or perhaps it would be best to converse with them now."

"Would you rather I interrupt the lesson the would have just begun?"

Snape contemplated it and found himself nodding his head. "Yes. It will save the professors who have the students that the Winchesters currently have next period the trouble of bringing this up with you as I have had to."

Dumbledore nodded. "Okay."

* * *

><p><em>(The Second of September) With the Winchesters…<em>

Sam was tired but continued in his well-practiced speech anyway. He was up to the part where he mentioned that there was to be no House rivalry so long as he and his brother were teaching them. "…Why? Because in the real world, which this school so _fantastically_ shelters you from, you will find that is you do not work together, you will not survive…."

He noticed as two figures—one ink black blob and another regal blue blob—making their way over to the Pitch from the school. He continued without fault in his speech, only able to recognize the blobs as Dumbledore and one of the other professors by the time he had reached the part of his speech where he told the students that they were there to "learn to fight and to survive". The pair waited on the sidelines until Dean shouted for the students to get started on their twelve laps. It was then that they joined the Winchesters at the middle of the field. Dean watched the class while Sam took over as the conversationist.

"That was well versed," Dumbledore commented. Sam smiled, softening his features and letting out a huge yawn. "Tired?"

Sam nodded. "Long night."

"WEASLEY! Don't you _dare_ try to cut that corner!" Dean shouted just before joining his brother's side. He quickly recognized the man in the black robes, his eyes igniting as he did, "Hey, Al. Hey, snakey-buddy, how's it hangin'?"

"Snape. My last name is _Snape_. Not 'snake'," said professor growled darkly, his pronunciation slow and going through each word syllable-by-syllable, "…or 'snakey-buddy' for that matter."

Dean held his hands as if in surrender. "No need to be testy."

"Hello, Dean," Dumbledore greeted, smiling gently at the nickname Dean had labeled to him.

"Any reason for the visit?" Sam asked, interrupting his brother and the Snape-guy's bicker. Though he was a bit drowsy, Sam could still sense people his brother did and didn't approve of from a mile away, let alone two feet.

"Severus was concerned about the state of the fifth year students you just had last period. He wished for me to speak to you about it."

"Oh don't tell me you're here to insult us," Dean said rolling his eyes.

"Did you see the way the students looked when they left?" Snape demanded his voice crawling from his throat.

"Flabby and out of shape?"

"Exhausted and distracted. How am I supposed to prepare them for their upcoming examinations if they continue coming to class in such a feeble manner?"

"You're a wizard, right?"

"How observant of you."

Dean continued on unfazed, "Well then why don't you just work your woo woo and magic them back to normal, huh? Or were you too busy being pissed at us to think of that?"

"That's not how it works, Winchester. I cannot simply 'magic' them to their average conditions. It will take a potion, which I currently have the students working on in class."

"Well it sounds like you have this taken care of then," Dean said with a cheeky smile that nearly brought Snape's patience to the edge of a cliff.

"This needs to end. Your teaching methods are barbaric and interfere with other lessons that professors such as myself are here to teach."

"So you _are_ here to insult us."

"Look," said Sam, who decided to take over the argument, "Albus wanted us to train these students the way were trained, right?"

"That is correct," Dumbledore agreed.

"Well then I'd suggest you start brewing whatever potion they'll need by the gallon 'cause _this_"—he motioned to the sixth years being chased by Zimmerman around the Pitch—"is just the beginning. They need this."

"This is inhumane, _even_ for Muggles."

"Said the Dracula-wanna-be," Dean murmured, though only Sam understood his reference.

"My class is imperative to the students so long as they are receiving an education, or if they wish to proceed in any profession."

"And our class is '_imperative'_ so long as they want to survive," Dean shot back.

"I do believe Dean has a point," Dumbledore said simply, rejoining the conversation. "Severus, I did ask them to train these students by the means which they know, and what they teach will be important to their continued survival, especially while Tom is still around. I would suggest that you take the Winchesters advice and begin brewing the Draught of Peace 'by the gallon' as they say and distribute it to the entire staff. That is all I wish to speak of on this matter."

"But, sir—."

"Have a good day."

Dumbledore left the pitch on that note, leaving Snape and the Winchesters to brew in his words on the grassy field. "So…" Dean said dragging out the two letters to their full extent, not knowing what else to say, "Al…nice guy."

"Yes, well it would seem that he has put us into a situation where two Muggles were given a position that they obviously know nothing of over a witch or wizard with a highly professional education in the subject."

Sam and Dean slowly met each other's eyes with skeptical looks doodled onto their faces. Dean retorted swiftly with, "Yeah, well, the Muggles don't exactly give you a five star review either."

Snape frowned deeply enough to leave permanent scowl marks engraved in his face before walking away without another word.

Sam sighed and yawned once more. "That was nice, Dean."

"He was asking for it," Dean growled re-facing the class. "BLETCHLEY! CARROW! Who gave you permission to take a break!"

* * *

><p><em>(The Second of September) In the dungeons with Harry and co. … <em>

Harry was fighting his heavy eyelids to stay open as he read the fifth line down of instructions for the complex potion he and the rest of the class were currently working on. Grey steam was puffing up at his face like smoke from a chimney. His potion was actually good compared to most of the class—especially next to Neville's, whose potion was spitting out green and orange sparks, had the consistency of oatmeal, and was emitting a pungent smell like rotting corpses on a hot day. Despite all odds, Hermione's potion looked like it was going swimmingly—through Hermione herself looked about ready to pass out.

The dungeon door creaked open and their professor returned, lurking quietly to the front of the room and back behind his desk. "Mr. Longbottom," he said slowly in a displeased voice, "this is not the proper time to be taking a nap. You are to complete your potion as instructed."

The rest of class dragged on and on, making each student feel as if they would never be permitted to leave the dungeon again. Smokes and fogs of all shades were floating thick in the air and making everyone more drowsy than necessary. As everyone was coming to a close on their potions—which looked more like each student had puked in their cauldron than concocted a proper potion—Snape began to stroll his way around to see how everyone had done. He reminded everyone that his or her potions should be letting a silvery vapor escape its surface. He looked down into Hermione's only to find that there was nothing to criticize, so he moved onto Harry's. His was still giving off a warm grey steam that was blowing into his face and fogging up his glasses. Snape took advantage of this and used it as the perfect opportunity to insult the famous boy.

"Potter, what is this?"

"The Draught of Peace," Harry said sleepily.

"Are you capable of reading, Potter?"

Some of the Slytherins chortled a little at this, but were mostly too tired to care.

"Yes, sir."

"Would you care to read the second line then?"

Harry looked up at the chalkboard that was partially misted up from various potions in the room, and partially fogged up due to his glasses. He took his specs off and cleared them out with the end of his robes before looking up and reading the line Snape had requested. "Stir five times counterclockwise, then lower flames before adding three Moon Dew leaves…Oh."

He had forgotten the Moon Dew leaves. Of all things, some stupid leaves were going to help him fail Potions.

"Your mess is completely and utterly useless. Perhaps you should spend more time paying attention than dozing off and acting like an ignorant baboon during my class, yes? _Evanesco_," Snape said, waving his wand and erasing Harry's potion from existence. "Everyone who has properly managed to create the Draught of Peace is to put a small portion into a flask and leave it on my desk to be graded. On your way out, students are permitted to take a small portion of Miss. Granger's potion to drink and clear the effects of your Defense Against the Dark Arts class."

Harry, who was too tired to care that he'd just been marked as a zero for the day's lesson, poured some of Hermione's potion into his flask after his friend had given a proper quantity for Snape to grade. He downed the silvery liquid and dragged himself from he classroom, quietly thanking Hermione as he left.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Okey-dokey then. Cool Story: Got a new case for my laptop and it's pretty damn awesome if I do say so myself. :) Sad Story: Sorry I didn't post earlier. I meant to post two days ago but then the Internet at my place broke so I couldn't…yeah...Hey, has anyone else out there noticed that they're killing off characters in the same order as the did in the Season 5 finale of SPN? (First Cas, then Bobby, and if you looked closely in Spoilers at the end of the last episode, Sam was looking quite dead in some random alley…creepy, right?) I can only speculate until the next ep. in like a month (grrr, too long)_

_Lieutenant Winter: Thanks, that was a really fun chapter to write and I was dying to ink it since I don't even know when. As for the paranoid Potter, there's a lot more of that to come_

_lexzly: now now, tortures a a harsh way to put it…prolly true but still…It's education!_

_Illucida: Thanks. Winchester Bootcamp, huh? (*grins evilly*) (*Mwahaha*) As for pranks, well, lets just say -_ (*hehe, cliffhanger*) (yes, that was my sad attempt to make a cliff on a computer…don't judge me...)_

_antra: hope that potions was everything you expected it to be. As for their lack of sports, it's just plain sad. I mean, it's one thing if they don't know how to play Pillow-Polo (because pretty much no one does) but I doubt even half of them know how to play Soccer, or, hell, even catch! _

_INMH: Yeah, the whistle was something I added very last minute (I was face-palming when I realized I'd almost forgot). As for Harry, let's just say he's gotta long year ahead of him._

_BlackWolf2013: Oh, dodgeball. Yeah, I was always that kid who didn't really play but always managed to be one of the two last players left in that ridiculously melodramatic cowboy-showdown of the death. I'm pretty sure the game's banned at the school I go to now. Oh well._

_Suuki-Aldrea: Field trips, eh? I'll ponder it :)_

_ji: Aww, thanks._

_Who Are You What Do You Want: Thx. Hope you liked the update_

Sasquatch Hugs to everyone that Reviewed, Read, Story-Alerted, or Favorited! Hear that? That's the sound of virtual high-fives! :)

_Well, that's all for now folks. Until next time, 再見 :)_


	19. When in Doubt

_A/N: 안녕하세요 :) (Korean)_

_Not much happening here. Gotta learn a Thirty Seconds to Mars song on guitar by tomorrow so that should be fun._

_Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, there would be no such thing as Mid-Season Finale's. If I owned Harry Potter, there would be another book on the way._

* * *

><p><em>(The Second of September) With Cas…<em>

He was standing on Earth, but more specifically on fresh and green American soil. He had appeared in a meadow where the sun was up, the air was refreshing, and he could concentrate with no fear of interruption. Besides, he'd always found the open, grass-sprouting land pleasant.

He should have already been done by now—he had the vision prepared to be planted in Pamela's head, and knew the spell which he would have to use. The sooner he started, the sooner Pamela would receive the vision—which would take from a day to a week—and the sooner Dean and Sam would return to the hands of the angels and the path which God himself had paved for them since the beginning of time.

Yet there was something wrong. Not externally wrong because Cas had reviewed everything over and over again to make sure nothing he needed was off. But there was still a certain nagging that had kept him from starting the process already. He was doubtful.

Cas swept his gaze around the meadow to make sure no one was there—though he knew no one was from the start. He had made sure that no humans—magical or non-magical—would be able to enter the area with a simple Enochian spell - one that wizards usually used to repel what they called "Muggles", but could actually be used for everyone if one was powerful enough, which Cas was.

He only saw one other option left: God. He looked up hoping to see the beyond where his Father supposedly existed, lived even, but only found wide skies speckled with wisps of horsetail-like clouds.

"Father," he started, but found that he was unsure of what exactly he wanted to disclose. He sighed, and let his mouth move as it pleased, speaking for itself without Cas's conscious consent, "Father, I am sorry. I am sorry I am questioning orders. I am unsure of what is…right. I do not doubt you - I breath and I fight only for you- , but rather my brother. And…and maybe that's wrong of me. After all, who am I to let my faith in him falter?

"The thing is Uriel, he believes killing Pamela Barnes is fulfillment of your will...but it doesn't sound...right. Are you not the one who told us to love the humans above all? Why would you give Uriel a message to intentionally hurt, let alone murder, one of them?"

Castiel received no response.

"I am your soldier, and I need your commands. Father, please, I am reaching out to you. Please, _tell_ me what I need to do."

The air was covered in silence still.

"I need a sign," Cas begged, his blue eyes hurt as he looked up to the equally blue sky for something, for anything. "Please, I need a sign."

Not even the wind answered the angels desperate pleas.

"Father…I-I have no choice but to accept this as your will," Castiel sighed. "I hope this is correct."

Castiel, servant of Heaven, soldier of the Lord, began the spell that would give the psychic a vision of her death to come by the hands of an angel.

* * *

><p><em>(The Second of September) With Harry and co. <em>

Harry sat alone at the Gryffindor table for a few minutes. People gave him funny glances that they thought he wouldn't notice—though he did. In fact, he noticed every single one of them. He had to restrain himself from standing up and swearing violently at all of them, simply because he knew that would not help his case - though the thought sounded quite appealing to his steadily burning temper. Thankfully, the Draught of Peace started to settle in about the same time that Ron and Hermione joined him. The pair explained to him about how they had to wait until Hermione's entire potion had been distributed in order for her to get her cauldron back.

"Look," Harry murmured to them when they were finished speaking, "yesterday at dinner I felt something…in my scar."

"What?" Hermione asked worried.

"It was like…confusion. Extreme confusion," explained Harry. He had thought it over before he went to sleep the previous night in order to pinpoint whatever it was that had raced through his scar during the beginning of term feast, and figured out that it was that emotion. "And it happened right when I looked at Professor Sam."

"We should tell Dumbledore," Hermione said almost instinctively.

"No," Harry replied quickly, dismissing and discarding the option. "He…I don't think he wants to talk to me right now."

"Harry—"

"I'm serious, Hermione. Just drop it…please."

The young witch frowned and rolled her eyes at Harry's stubborn attitude, deciding to appease her friend's wishes for now - though she had mentally made it her full intention that this wouldn't be the last of the subject.

"You don't think this has something to do with You-Know-Who, do you?" Ron asked. "I mean, it might have just been a coincidence, right?"

Harry shrugged. "I doubt it. When's anything ever just been a 'coincidence' with me."

"Do you think he's Impursed?"

"Since when has Voldemort"—Ron flinched—"ever bothered Impursing Muggles? He's never operated like that. He just offs them."

"It might have been an easy opportunity to gain access inside Hogwarts. Professor Sam's a Muggle. Just because Dumbledore likes him doesn't exactly mean he can deflect any spells now can he?"

"Ron's right," Hermione agreed. "Using a Muggle as a spy would be a easy course of action. I think we ought to keep an eye on him just in case."

Harry couldn't agree more. He warily watched the professor who sat so innocently at the staff table, eating a meek salad while his brother stuffed a huge bite of sandwich - maybe turkey? - into his mouth.

"Bloody hell, I can't decide who's worse: Umbridge, the Winchesters, or Snape," Ron complained, his eyes following Harry's over to the staff table.

"Well, at least the Winchesters are preparing us properly," said Hermione pointedly.

"Are you actually _defending _them?" asked Ron, obviously appalled by the thought based on his wide eyes and loose jaw.

"Yes, _Ron_. I respect them. They're not avoiding the topic of You-Know-Who like Umbridge is. In fact they're throwing him in our faces so that we're not scared of him—."

"They don't want us to be scared of him 'cause they're gonna off us before He gets the chance," Ron retorted, snapping in exasperation. "Dumbledore hired bloody _drill sergeants _for Merlin's sake!"

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic, Ron."

"You're just defending them 'cause you think they're handsome aren't you?" Ron demanded.

Hermione blushed furiously, and childishly said, "No, I'm not."

The tips of Ron's ears went as red as hot coals, and he frowned, "The last time you went all love-dovey on a teacher was with Lockhart, and _he_ tried to _wipe our memories_ into _oblivion_ last I checked."

"Oh _posh_, Ronald!"

Harry blocked the bickering from his head and sighed, spooning some cheddar-and-broccoli soup into his mouth.

The rest of the day had passed slowly, with each teacher he had next droning on with the same speech about the upcoming O.W.L.s that they would be taking come the end of the year. Trelawney had told them that for class they were to start keeping dream journals so they to decode in class to foretell each other's futures during class while Binns had assigned them a foot and a half long essay on the Goblin Rebellions of 1612. Harry used the free time before dinner to write an opening paragraph for the essay, but found himself too bored with the topic to write any further than that. Dinner moved by about as slowly as the rest of the day had, and Harry eventually found himself in detention with Umbridge.

"Good evening, Professor," he said, awkwardly, as he waited by the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts room. Everything had changed since the last time he'd been in there. There were no longer any creatures in tanks or cages like when Lupin had taught, or dark devices like when Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise as Moody had occupied the space, or photos of achievement like when Lockhart was there. Instead the walls were painted a nauseating pink and adorned with plates, which had moving photographs of cats on them—with their beady little eyes counting each of his breaths the entire situation was creepy to say the least.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter. Today you will be doing some lines for me. No, not with your quill," she said sweetly as Harry reached into his rucksack for a quill. She smiled like a lunatic who'd just won a bloody war, her pouchy cheeks pushed up like accumulated toad-fat. "You're going to be using a rather special one of mine."

* * *

><p><em>(The Second of September) With Sam later that night… <em>

Sam roamed the halls, knowing good and well that it was after hours, but not really caring. He was a teacher; he didn't have a bedtime. Still part of him felt like he was…lurking. He justified his actions by telling himself that he was simply trying to gain his bearings on the grounds so he could get around without fault, —which was partially true—but he knew that there were _other_ reasons for his suspicious demeanor.

He had already discovered how to navigate throughout most of the halls, creating a mental map in his head so he could remember, and he was pretty sure he had found a secret passage that could get him out of the school behind a statue of someone called Gregory the Smarmy. He was going to have to investigate it further some other time though.

"Professor?" he heard someone say behind him.

Sam quickly turned around to find Harry Potter's piercing emerald eyes watching him suspiciously from behind those round glasses of his. "Harry? What are you doing out of bed? It's nearly midnight."

"Detention," Harry responded, inching his hand towards the wand in his robes 'just in case'.

"Detention?" Sam repeated, inconspicuously keeping track of the scrawny boy's movement. "It's the first day of school."

"Story of my life, sir," Harry said, still a bit tense. "What are you doing here?"

"Lost," Sam lied smoothly. "And the paintings around here are really terrible with directions."

Harry still looked wary but seemed to have accepted it, despite the fact that there were no paintings in this particular hallway of the castle. "Where are you headed? Maybe I can point you in the right direction."

"Thank you, Harry. Could you tell me where the staff room is?"

Harry gave the proper directions to Sam, though it was clear in his voice that he wasn't quite ready to get matey with the man. Harry was obviously looking for a fault in Sam's face, as if waiting for his professor to spontaneously morph into Voldemort at any second, his eyes narrowing slightly whenever he thought he caught hint of deception. Sam was a practiced liar though, and kept his expressions casual and grateful as if he really was lost and bumping into Harry was simply a bit of good fortune. Harry didn't exactly look like he was falling for that, but Sam wasn't exactly telling the truth anyways—thus making them even…sort of.

"Thanks again," Sam said, turning his back to Harry and starting to head down the hall.

"Any time, Professor."

* * *

><p><em>(The Second of September) With Harry… <em>

Harry woke up the portrait of The Fat Lady so that he could tell her the password and get into the Gryffindor common room for some well-deserved rest. Though she made sure Harry knew she was quite frustrated with his late-night timing with several choice words and angry tones, she allowed him through. Ron was dozing on one of the plush couches, his dream journal tossed wide open next to him while Hermione had her nose studiously pressed into some ancient book or another. She looked up at Harry and sighed in what seemed to be relief, "We were waiting for you."

Harry let out a great yawn and looked down at Ron. He couldn't help but smirk as his best mate snored loudly before the fire.

"Well, _I_ was at least," corrected Hermione, following Harry's gaze to the snoring ginger.

"You go up to bed. I'll wake him up," Harry said, knowing his sleeping friend was anything but pleasant when woken from one of his homework-induced slumbers.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Hermione gave him one last look before heading up the girl's dorms stairs. Upon reaching the top, she called, "Goodnight, Harry."

"'Night, Hermione," Harry called back softly.

Once Hermione was securely inside of her dorm, Harry looked down at his mate. _Now is as good a time as any,_he thought with a sigh. He plucked the dream journal from the couch, and gently shook his snoring friend back into the world of the living, keeping himself a good few feet away just incase Ron's arm "twitched" and smacked him in the face again—which Harry knew from personal experience in Grimmauld Place was not in any way pleasant.

"_Blimey_, Harry. It's the middle of the night! I'm _trying_ to get some sleep," Ron moaned angrily the way that a newly burnt log might just before it catches on fire—if log's could talk that is. He squinted and looked around, obviously disoriented from waking up in the common room rather than his four-poster bed. "Where's Hermione?"

"She just left to her dorm. C'mon, let's go upstairs," said Harry wearily. He pointed his wand at the fire and muttered a spell to put it out before starting up to the dorm.

Ron frowned and trudged behind Harry up the stairs. Harry placed Ron's homework onto it's owner's trunk before he tucked himself into his bed. Half asleep, he decided to wait until morning to tell his mates about his run-in with Professor Sam. He murmured 'Goodnight' to Ron before allowing sleep to overwhelm him. His mind threw him into a the hallway he'd been dreaming about for months, but he only managed to catch some glances of it—the black-and-white tiles cold beneath his stomach, the black door so familiar and so far away. If only he could reach it...

* * *

><p><em>AN: A little bit of a filler, but we haven't seen from Cas in a little. Yeah, like I said before, not a lot going on here. Just weening off my Supernatural addiction (Which is not going well on account of I started making a Cas-plushie to feed my addiction) (No, but actually) (It has feathers and everything) (*Note to self: Must get life*) Oh, but I started watching this show Merlin, and it's pretty decent. Check it out if you too need to ease your boredom until Supernatural returns (Jan. 6. Mark your calendars…I would but I don't get a new one 'til Christmas)_

_Lisa Demonic Angel: …no, you didn't leave a review last chap (I checked a little under twenty times give or take). Glad you like how they teach though._

_Illucida: Actually, Snape more planned his lesson by coincidence. Whether or not the kids were tired, he would have had them make that potion anyway (said my plot bunny). Yeah, Sam did stay up the entire night before. I'll be posting more before the holidays so no worries._

_MegTimeLord32998: Glad you reviewed. As for Bobby Season 7, I can't tell you (hehe, evil me). Umbridge is more next chapter (and it was really really really fun to write. It was pretty much the scene I waited to write since the beginning…and I began this on my computer a little over a year ago)_

_Lieutenant Winter: Yeah, I couldn't exactly have Snape running around whacking kids with spoons (though the mental image is pretty funny). As of here, I'm just having him be an ass to people he doesn't like - namely Harry and Dean._

_Suuki-Aldrea: Hope you liked it._

_BlackWolf 2013: Thx._

_Who Are You What Do You Want: Teacher fitness club? Maybe in the future, but right now they're still adjusting. It's a good idea though, and I'm hopefully going to make it work when the time comes_

_INMH: Glad you're enjoying it. :D_

_Well that's about it. Review if that's what you really want to do. 녕_


	20. Fight the System

_A/N: Hey there :) (sorry, I'm not really in the mood to look up languages right now)_

_This weeks been just one of those weeks…lets just leave it at that._

_Disclaimer: I do solemnly swear that I own neither Harry Potter nor Supernatural_

* * *

><p><em>(The Fifth of September) With Pamela Barnes…<em>

Pamela was assaulted with sudden pain, white hot like a hot iron stake being jabbed through her stomach and past her spine. Blood choked up through her throat as her attacker stole his sword from her insides. Her knees hit the ground and there was someone yelling something. Everything was black—yet again she was blind so that was always the case. But this black was different, like when you're in a dark room and you keep opening and closing your eyes yet no matter how many times you do so, you can't completely convince yourself that your eyes are open. "This is over…but believe me, there is still much to be done," said a distant voice down a very distant tunnel.

Pamela snapped up from her sleep and found that she was drenched in sweat—not blood—and panting as if she'd just ran from Hell without so much as a water break the whole trek. She grabbed the phone she kept next to her bed and let her muscle memory take over when it came to dialing the first phone number she could think of.

"Come on, Dean," she murmured nervously into the receiver. "Pick up, pick up."

"_This is Dean. I can't come to the phone right now so leave a message_."

_Damn it_, she thought ending the un-recieved call abruptly. She wasted no time, and quickly punched in the next number that came to mind. She was more than grateful, more than relieved to hear a response on the other end.

"Who is this?"

"Bobby, it's me, Pamela."

"Pamela? What's wrong?"

"I-I think I just had a vision."

"What happened?"

"I'm pretty sure that I…"-(she took a deep breath in hopes of calming her voice)-" I died."

"Son of a bitch," Bobby swore under his breath. "Okay don't panic."

Pamela would've rolled her eyes if she could. "Really, Bobby? That's the best you can come up with? Don't panic? I just felt myself _die _for Christ's sake, and you want me not to panic?"

"Where are you?" asked Bobby unfazed by her annoyed rant.

"In my house."

"You have salt lines up?"

"Of course I have salt lines up. What do ya' think I am? Suicidal?"

"I'll be there in a day. Don't leave your house."

"I won't. Bye."

"Bye."

And the line went dead.

* * *

><p><em>(The Fifth of September) With the Winchesters…<em>

The week had gone by nicely as the Winchesters had planned—well, more _Sam_ planned and Dean went along with then anything. The students would come to the Pitch, practically sprint to the locker rooms to get changed, and then stand in the four lines awaiting instruction. After basic training was over, Sam planned to get them to start doing more inter-House activities. So far the only thing that was inter-House during class was the sit-ups portion. How were the kids going to learn to work together, as a whole no less, if the only interaction they had with each other was during a few minutes of sit-ups, which they weren't allowed to speak during? _Baby steps_, Sam thought.

They were currently towards the end of last period class with the sixth years, and at the part where the rubber balls they'd asked McGonagall to enchant, were flying at the kids. "If you're gonna drop, then be prepared to roll, Belby!" Dean had yelled when the Ravenclaw girl hit the ground, saving her hide from a close knock on the head, but being pelted with two more balls when she reached a feeble position on the ground.

"That's it for today," Sam announced, relieving each of the weary kids of their day's training. "Class dismissed."

Sam and Dean chatted casually for a few minutes, waiting for the bell to ring, but stopped when they realized that the Weasley twins were approaching them. The identical pair had made a habit of that; they were perfectly fine with speaking with professors casually which was a good change in pace - the Weasley twins openly conversing with the Winchesters would hopefully open the door for other students to try to get a glimpse at the people behind the drill sergeant professors most Hogwartian pupils were accustomed to.

"Hey, Dean. Sam," Fred said coolly.

"How'd we do?" George asked.

"You? Need to work on not lagging behind during running," Dean commented easily, sounding no different than he would when sharing a beer with a trusted Hunter friend. "And, Fred, needs to stop making rude hand gestures at us when he thinks we aren't looking."

Both twins seemed impressed that the professors knew how to tell them apart _and_ what they did behind their backs—those were hard tasks even for the best of their professors _and_ their mum. After growing up with Mr. Weasley as their dad, they had some respect for Muggles, but these two solidified that. They proved that not all Muggles were the ignorant baboons most Pureblood families made them out to be.

George popped a piece of candy into his mouth and handed another to Fred, who graciously accepted it. "Want some?" George asked his professors.

Sam and Dean shrugged in turn and accepted the sweet offering. Dean read the label quickly, trying to figure out what exactly they were, and Sam untwined the wrapper, lightly placing the light brown sweet in his mouth. Sam made an attempt to thank the twins, but it came out as more of a gurgling noise spat from his pharynx. Sam scrunched his eyebrows and opened his mouth to try again, but instead felt his tongue go heavy as it lolled out of his mouth, stretching down to the floor like pulled-out taffy.

"What the hell?" Dean asked no one in particular, his eyes dodging between his struggling brother and the twins who were quite obviously hold back smiles.

The bell rang within Hogwarts and the twins began to leave, along with the rest of the smirking and laughing sixth years that had been watching the scene from a safe distance. "Good luck with that," Fred called.

"Ta," George said with a wave.

Dean quickly raced over to the hysterical twins and whirled them around by their shoulders. They couldn't hold back any longer, snorting and hooting madly as they caught sight of Sam holding his slimy snake-like tongue uncertainly while it grew out longer by the second.

"What'd you two do to him?"

The identical pair broke out into a new round of hysterics and were clutching their stomachs, hunched over in wild rounds of laughter.

"Ton-Tongue"—laughter—"Toffee," George managed to wheeze out.

"Well…fix him," Dean demanded, mildly confused and still a bit pissed.

The twins took one last look at their pranked professor before Fred pointed his wand and sent the counter-spell whirling at Sam. Fred and George waited for Dean to dock points or put them in a month's worth of detention or something to that extent—from personal experience, the pair of them knew that professors didn't take kindly to walking into one of their pranks, or in Dean's case, _almost_ walking into one of their pranks. Despite that, they were both still quite amused, and the identical looks on their faces only served as further proof. Besides, whatever the consequences were, they were totally worth the 'you-kicked-my-puppy'/'what-the-hell' fully dressed on Sam's face.

"You know what?" asked Dean rhetorically, as Sam's tongue shrunk shorter by about a foot or two. The twins, though quite tall themselves, had to tilt their heads slightly upwards to look at Dean for his response. "You two are my new favorites."

Fred and George looked about as shocked as they had when they'd found out Ron were to be a Prefect. Their jaws hung loose and their eyes widened until they were nearly House-Elf-Sized. "_Us_?" they asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Dean said contemplatively drawing the word from his tongue slowly. "But if you two ever try to '_prank_' either of us ever again, I'll shoot you. C'mon, Sammy, let's go."

The twins traded foreign looks with one another, and then turned to watch their Muggle professors walk up the hill to the castle.

Dean smirked at Sam, who was currently massaging his thankfully normal-sized tongue awkwardly. "How's it feel to have your ass handed to you by candy twice?"

Sam shoved Dean half-heartedly. "Shut up."

* * *

><p><em>(The Fifth of September) Later that night with Sam…<em>

Sam was out for another one of his nighttime strolls. The night before he had gone through the passage behind Gregory the Smarmy's statue, only to find himself in Hogsmeade. Sure, that was a useful thing to know, but it wasn't going to help him get to Borgin and Burkes like he'd told Ruby he would. Plus, if Ruby couldn't walk in Diagon Alley, how was Sam supposed to expect that she could walk about freely in Hogsmeade. He was almost 100% positive that the wizard village would have the same protection that the wizard city did.

Sam sighed and decided to call it a night—though it was only about ten o' clock, which was quite an early for him to clock out. As he roamed down the hall, he heard two boys talking in under-breath tones nearby. He stealthily peeked around the wall's bend, only to see the be-speckled Harry Potter and redheaded Ron Weasley—who was holding some sort of broom in his hands—speaking to one another in the light of the nearby, warm, glowing torches. Sam was about to start walking over to the pair in order to send them off to their dorm when he saw Dean coming down the same hall.

"Sam, I've been looking for you all over," Dean called, completely giving away his location. As Dean walked over to him, he turned his head and saw the turnoff hallway where Harry and Ron were conspiring between themselves. "Potter? Weasley? What are you two doing out of your dorms after hours?"

"Detention, sir," Harry rushed, tearing his hand from Ron's, and shoving it into his pocket as the two professors joined them.

"Both of you? It's the first week of school," Dean commented skeptically.

"Well, I was, er, practicing for, um, Quidditch try-outs tomorrow," Ron stumbled, the tips of his ears turning into a heated red color as well as his cheeks. He was partially embarrassed to be telling his professors—really anyone—about him wanting to be on the team, but had also heard about what his brothers had done to Sam via the Hogwarts rumor mill. He could only hope that the professors had no hard feelings about him based on his brothers.

"You still have detention, Harry?" Sam inquired.

"Still?" Dean asked bewildered. "How long have you had detention?"

"Since the first day of lessons, sir."

"Wow…I'm impressed," said Dean, nodding his head. "Beat my record."

"What was your record?" Ron couldn't help but ask, wondering whether it was better than Fred and George's.

"Third day," Dean said casually. "It would've been earlier but my teacher felt bad for me 'cause I was new."

"Fred and George got detention on the fifth day once," Ron commented matter-of-factly. "They stole Mrs. Norris and put her up on the roof of the astronomy tower. Filch practically had a fit."

Dean nodded once more and noticed Harry's hand squirming a little in discomfort as the fist obviously tightened in his pocket. "What's wrong with your hand?"

"Nothing," Harry claimed in a short breath that was much too quick to be convincing.

"Okay, I've heard some pretty bad lies in my life, but _that_ one tops the cupcake. Right, Sammy?" Dean said.

"Like icing."

"Lemme see your hand," Dean said, holding out his own hand for Harry.

The ruffled-haired boy hesitated before attempting to be clever by raising his right hand. Dean didn't even bother to look at it; instead maintaining eye contact with the fifth year and deepening his pissed glare and, consequently, his frown.

"Five points. Other hand," Dean growled.

Harry met his professor's grey-green eyes with his own emerald ones for a moment, silently cursing Dean. He reluctantly raised his left hand, revealing the raw words '_I must not tell lies__' _engraved into the skin. He turned his eyes down, clenched his jaw, and waited for Dean to say something.

"Who did this?" Dean asked, surprisingly steadily.

"It doesn't ma—"

"TEN POINTS. _WHO DID THIS_!" Dean barked.

"Umbridge," said Harry, obviously miffed about having points taken.

Dean made no hesitation as he took off past Harry and Ron in the direction of Umbridge's office.

"Wait!" Sam and Harry tried to yell after him.

"Go get Professor McGonagall," Sam instructed with a sigh, before running down the hall after his brother.

Sam ran fast, outstretching his legs to their full length with each step, and reached the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts room as Dean yanked open the one to Umbridge's office. A small part of Sam's mind was partially surprised his brother knew his way around the castle already, but then realized that Dean had probably mapped it out in his head just as he had on pure instinct. Dean _had_ been trained by their father just as Sam had after all.

"Dean!" Sam called once more on instinct, but was still ignored as his brother flung himself into the third Defense Against the Darks Arts teacher's personal room. Sam raced up the stairs, swallowing them three at a time with his legs, as he heard his brother swearing loudly more than a pissed sailor in a sinking ship.

"Flipendo!"

Sam reached the room just in time to watch Dean be flung back against one of the puke-me-pink walls, shattering several plates with what looked like moving kittens on them. Dean grunted but was stumbling back to his feet in seconds, taking a shot at the witch with his nickel-plated Colt 1911. The witch managed to deflect it with a flick of her stubby wand, letting a shrilly shriek escape her lips as she did so.

"How _dare_ you, you _filthy_ Muggle!" she yelped, a venomously excited glint sparkling in her eyes. Sam saw what she was about to do and he quickly moved without thinking. After shoving Dean out of the way and back down to the floor, Sam whipped his head around and saw the lightning yellow ray of an oncoming curse launched straight at his face. "_Conjunctivitis_."

The back of Sam's head collided with the wall, breaking several of the higher-up plates that Dean hadn't reached when he'd been thrown back, and the rest of Sam's body fell to the floor. At first Sam panicked, his sight suddenly becoming aphotic, but was relieved as fuzzy colors returned within his vision. Dean shouted something behind him, and there was another ear-bursting echo reverberating off the walls as a bullet exploded from Dean's handgun.

"Sam. You okay?" Dean shouted, kneeling next to his brother and sending another bullet right through a ray of spell-light and causing a mini-explosion.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," said Sam, trying to focus Dean's face in his fuzzy vision. "Dean. Look out!"

Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Umbridge raising her wand and screeching, "Expulso!"

_BOOM!_

The explosion rocketed through Sam and Dean's ears, and they were sent flying in opposite directions like ragdolls caught in the middle of a little girl's temper tantrum. While Dean went right through the door, Sam was blasted against the wall parallel of it. Dean struggled up to his feet like the fighter he was and tried to reload his gun, but was smacked backwards with a spell called 'Stupefy' before he had the chance to shoot. Sam watched helplessly as the blurry form of his brother was blasted off the second floor and down to the room Umbridge taught in. Sam heard a desk snap and break down below as Umbridge ran giddily to the balcony Dean had just fallen off.

"Scourgify! That'll teach you for your foul mouth!" she squealed sending a spell down at Dean. Sam pushed himself up to his feet, and ran to the balcony.

Close below, Sam saw his brother half-groaning, half-gagging on top of the desk he had just broken. Bubbles grew in Dean's mouth, multiplying as they popped, and, consequently, beginning to choke his brother. Dean raised his hands to his throat in the universal 'I'm-choking' sign, as he gagged out the bubbles onto the floor and remnants of the desk that had broken his fall.

"What're you doing to him!" Sam yelled. "Stop it!_ Stop_!"

"Everte Statum!" Umbridge yelped, hitting Sam with a spell that felt like he'd been hit with a frying pan and sending him down a flight of stairs.

Sam rubbed his head and looked up at the mad witch at the top of the stairs. Sudden anger flamed within him and ignited in his eyes—which had slowly paled from a moss green to more of a green-grey shade.

Umbridge pointed her wand once more at Dean from where she towered above, but Sam's instincts kicked in. "_No_!" he roared sharply, as the door to the Defense room plowed open. Without warning, Umbridge's wand flew from her grasp and landed with a light tapping noise on the floor behind Sam. The younger Winchester's eyes widened and he watched Umbridge's blurred out expression melt to surprise as well.

"_What is going on here_?" McGonagall demanded upon entry to the room—or what was left of it anyway. The piercing sound of her voice stole the attention of everyone in the room.

Umbridge started rattling off complaints about the Winchesters, which Sam soon found himself retaliating against, so that their voices clambered over each other. McGonagall took in the mess of a room, the bickering professors, and the last professor, who had soap bubbles surrounding him—though he had stopped choking on them when Umbridge was disarmed.

"_Shut up_!" McGonagall snapped at the both of them, immediately shutting the pair up. She snapped around to Harry and demanded, "What do you know of this, Potter?"

Harry bit his lip for a moment, ruminating how to respond. "Er, well, Dean, uh, Professor Dean noticed my, um…particular form of detention and, er, came here. Sam, er, Professor Sam told me to come get you."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said strictly, not taking her steely gaze from the three professors, "for being the only _useful_ source of information in this room."

"She tortured the kid," Dean grunted as he worked himself into a less feeble sitting position.

McGonagall seemed to take this into account for a moment. "What was your detention, Mr. Potter?"

Harry's jaw locked and he didn't budge, glaring fiercely at Dean. Ron nudged him, but when he realized Harry had no intention of lifting his hand, he grabbed his stubborn friend's wrist and yanked it up. Harry flinched and tried to throw it back down, but Ron's grasp tightened and held it in place. McGonagall momentarily regarded it and seemed slightly taken aback.

Turning on Umbridge she sharply said, "You are to conform to the prescribed disciplinary practices of the school so long as you are teaching here." Umbridge opened her mouth to retort in that squeal-like tone of hers, but McGonagall was having none of it and carried on in a louder tone turning to the Winchesters, "And you two are to act appropriately when it comes to reacting to situations as such. In case what I say is unclear, that means you are to report to either the Headmaster or a Head of House, _not_ by _attacking_ a person in her study. Never, in all my years of teaching, have I seen such—."

"Hem_ hem_," Umbridge coughed girlishly to gain voice in the conversation. "I am going to have to request that I am _not_ questioned in my own area of discipline—"

"You're crazy!" Dean groaned, hefting himself to his feet and cradling his left arm, which he was pretty sure he had broken in his fall.

"To question my practices," continued Umbridge in a slightly more shrilly voice, "is to question the Ministry—and by default, the Minister himself. I am a tolerant woman—."

"You're slicing kids' hands open!" Dean shouted.

"That does seem pretty intolerant," Sam commented defiantly with a sarcastic shrug. Sam got himself up and made his way over to his brother.

"—But I will _not_ tolerate _disloyalty_!" Umbridge nearly shrieked.

"_Disloyalty_?" The Winchesters chorused angrily.

"Look, I don't know how you do it in England, but in America, when you're a Hunter you stick with the people you're working with or you die," Dean said looking up at their witch colleague with his words gaining momentum the same way a train leaves a station, "and right now we're supposed to be working together, and so are you. Your main _focus_ ought to be educating, not making examples out of kids like Potter"—he angrily tried to point at said boy, but quickly brought back his right arm to hold his sore left one—"and most _definitely_ _not_ being the Ministry's bitch!"

"_I will not stand for that kind of foul language in my own classroom!_"

"And I will not _stand _for medieval _torture_!"

"_Silencio_!" McGonagall shouted, flourishing her wand and stealing all voices in the room aside from her own with the spell. "Dolores, I trust you will be able to fix your classroom with a few spells, yes?"

Umbridge was practically popping with all the fury contained in her small body, but she eventually nodded with a short jerk of her head.

"You two are to go to the Hospital Wing."—Despite his lack of vocal chords, Dean tried to protest—"_Immediately_. Am I clear?"

Sam and Dean shared a glance with one another—though Sam's eyesight continued to be hazy—before the younger Winchester took lead and nodded for them both. Sam pulled Dean out to the hall and on their way to the Hospital Wing as McGonagall instructed Harry and Ron to go back to their dorm.

"How's your arm?" Sam asked under his breath, glad to have his vocal chords back.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Just awesome. Shame we can't do anything about your face."

"What's wrong with my face?"

"It hasn't changed."

* * *

><p><em>AN: You know the drill ._._

_Greeniron: Hope you enjoyed_

_Lieutenant Winter: Sam is not cute. Sam is freakin' adorable (in that weird little 'I-will-rule-the-world-and-make-you-want-to-hug-me' kind of way if you know what I mean)_

_Suuki-Aldrea: Here you are_

_BlackWolf2013: Yeah, Cas and his internal struggles, and Ron and his jealousy. Hehe._

_INMH: I kinda tried to base the Cas scene off of 'The Man Who Would Be King' intro, but on a smaller scale._

_Illucida: Well, now you know the reaction. Hope it was everything you were looking foward to_

_Basia Orci: Thx_

_Who Are You What Do You Want: LOL your plan. Somehow, I don't see that happening though (but it made me giggle)_

_Akira Muratake: Glad you like it. As for having them running about with guns, that's for a later time. The original emo kid thing was actually based off this picture I stumbled on where Snape was just kinda doing his glaring thing he always does and below him it was something like "Severus Snape: The Original Emo Kid". It made me laugh and popped up in my head when I was writing. As for a beta, I'm not really looking for one right now, but maybe in the future_

_Ji: Thanks :)_

**Super Thanks to Everyone who Reviewed, Favorited, Story-Alerted, and Read. Yeah, this has broke the 100 reviews point! Woot woot! :D**

_And that's pretty much it. Review if you wanna. Bye-bye_


	21. How to See Clearly

_A/N: Happy Holidays! _

_Hope everyone has a happy holiday!_

_Disclaimer: Do I look like I own Supernatural or Harry Potter?_

* * *

><p><em>(The Fifth of September<em>) _In the Gryffindor common room… _

Harry and Ron met up with Hermione—who made it clear she had been "worried sick" about the two of them—and told her everything that happened in the Defense classroom. "…And then her wand just flew out of her hand," Harry explained.

"Did McGonagall do that?"

"Not unless she suddenly knows how to do spells without incantations or her wand," Ron snorted.

"I've never heard of _anyone_ being able to do that," Hermione contemplated. "Well, except for really powerful witches and wizards."

"Somehow, I get the feeling that if McGonagall was _that_ powerful she wouldn't be teaching here," Ron said skeptically.

"Harry," Hermione started hesitantly.

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you tell us about seeing Sam in the hallway on Monday?"

"Honestly, I completely forgot," Harry said, his mind wandering back to the nightmare he had that night.

"Are you gonna thank them?"

"Who? The Winchesters?" Harry pondered it for a moment. "I'm not sure whether I want to thank them or hex them right now."

"Okay…why didn't you tell us about what Umbridge was doing?"

Harry hesitated, and thought about it for a second. "I didn't want to give Umbridge the satisfaction of thinking I was complaining."

"Complaining?" Ron said dubiously. "Bloody hell, mate, there's a difference between complaining for the sake of complaining, and complaining 'cause you're being tortured."

"Don't say it like that," Harry mumbled, looking down at his suddenly fascinating shoes.

"Like what?" Ron demanded. "You do realize how incredibly stupid that sounds, right?"

Harry frowned and looked up at Ron indignantly, growling, "So now I'm stupid?"

"Ron didn't mean it like that," Hermione said softly.

"Really, Hermione? 'Cause it sure sounded like that."

"Harry—."

"Look, just…never mind. I'm going to bed."

Hermione tried to call after her friend once more, but Harry was already storming up the stairs, ignoring her and Ron. He put himself into his four-poster bed and drew the curtains around him, not wanting to be woken when Ron decided to go to bed. All the while, all he could think of was that these Muggles, these Winchesters stood up for him.

_"Bloody hell, I can't decide who's worse: Umbridge, the Winchesters, or Snape,"_ Harry remembered Ron saying earlier in the week. Well now he knew the answer. While the Winchesters may have been tough, they were simply trying to prepare them all for what was out there; Umbridge on the other hand had been trying to get him to deny the truth; and Snape…well, Snape still hated him. He suddenly realized that, by some ironic twist in fate, the Winchesters were his new favorite teachers. His life just kept getting weirder and weirder.

* * *

><p><em>(The Fifth of September) In the Hospital Wing…<em>

"There you go," Madam Pomfrey said, supplying Dean with yet another fluffed pillow. "You should be fine by morning. I'm going to have to ask you to stay here for the night though."

"Thanks," Dean grumbled, obviously not pleased with the fact he would have to stay there overnight without any of his weapons other than the one measly pistol he'd brought along.

"And you," the healer said turning to Sam, "I'll have glasses fixed up for you in the morning. You got quite a hit there. You best be happy you can see at all."

"Yeah, alright."

"Don't take that tone with her, four-eyes," Dean said, with a smirk forming on his lips.

"Shut up," Sam said, trying to adjust to the fact his eyes would never fully heal—it was a big jump from having 20-20 vision for his entire life.

Madam Pomfrey bustled away mumbling something about needing to get some Scalp-Healing Salve, while Sam spaced out in a chair next to Dean's temporary bed.

"You okay?" Dean asked, watching the discomfort grow on his brother's face. "Hey, ground control. Back to Earth."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, looking back to Dean.

"You okay, space cadet?"

"Um, yeah, I guess. As okay as ever."

"…You realize that's not comforting, right?"

Sam laughed a bit. "I'll be fine."

Madam Pomfrey came back to them and propped Dean up, rubbing a thick cream into the back of his head. "Hey! What are you doing to my hair?" Dean demanded, flinching out of her hands.

"Relax," she said soothingly. "This is just to heal the cuts back there."

"It's not gonna make me go bald, is it?"

"No, of course not," she said, rubbing some of the salve into the back of Sam's head, despite his complaints. "That should be good. Don't touch it and go get some sleep, okay?"

Sam grimaced and looked at his brother. "I'll be fine, Sam."

The younger brother nodded and headed off to bed without another word—although, he did manage to slip a knife under his brother's pillow without either Dean or Madam Pomfrey noticing. Dean would thank him when he found it.

* * *

><p><em>(The Sixth of September) With the Winchesters…<em>

The next morning, neither of the Winchesters arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast—that alone had already raised suspicious whispers between students. But even weirder was the Umbridge wasn't there either—though the students didn't know, she was simply struggling with spells and charm work to repair her class and personal room. Sam, on the other hand, had headed down to the Hospital Wing right after showering and getting dressed for the day. He found Dean sitting in his bed with not so much as a splint on despite having broken his arm the night before.

Dean forked some eggs into his mouth followed by a bacon strip, somehow managing to say, "'Morning, sleeping beauty."

Sam couldn't so much as roll his eyes before Madam Pomfrey was on him, checking to make sure that the back of his scalp had healed fully and shoving some rectangular non-framed glasses into his hand. "Put those on," she instructed, parting the back of Sam's hair swiftly and nodding to herself. "They'll automatically change whenever your eyesight changes and they won't break even under the worst of circumstances."

"Thank you." Sam looked at the glasses hesitantly before placing them onto his face. Instantly, his sight cleared up and made everything around him more crisp than ever—or at least since the previous night. He looked at Dean and raised his eyebrows, silently asking for his big brother's opinion.

"Nerdy," Dean decided. "White and nerdy."

"Whatever," Sam sighed, snatching a piece of bacon off his brother's plate.

"Hey!" Dean practically whined.

"What? I'm hungry too, you know," Sam retorted, munching on the salt-doused, crispy meat. He turned to Madam Pomfrey and asked, "Will he be able to teach today?"

"Yes, Dean should be just fine," the healer replied nodding her head. "In fact, he should be good enough to make it to first period."

"Sweet," Dean said, pulling himself out of bed. He had grown up around both people getting hurt and being the one getting hurt himself, and he couldn't stand hospitals. It wasn't so much out of fear in as much as it was out of annoyance—while on a Hunt, he had a fighting chance, but in a hospital, he was helpless. Plus, they made him a little stir-crazy. "Thanks, doc."

"Yeah, thanks, Madam," Sam added.

"No problem," she called as the two brothers left. "You two take care of yourselves!"

"No promises," Dean called back as the door shut itself behind him.

* * *

><p><em>(The Sixth of September) With Pamela and Bobby…<em>

The brunette psychic looked genuinely scared when Bobby had arrived at her house, and she hadn't allowed him inside until she made sure he wasn't a demon (nope), a 'shifter (not quite), a witch (nothing), and a few of the other greatest hits. She allowed him inside—finally—and told him everything she could about the vision—which wasn't much since she hadn't really _seen_ any of it. "It was definitely a sword though," she explained, remembering the weapon being drawn from her body.

"Well…now we just have to figure out what kind of monster carries a sword and we'll be all set," Bobby said. Pamela's pale eyes widened and she gasped in surprise, setting the Hunter into red-alert mode. "What is it? A vision?"

"The angels…don't they carry swords with them?"

"Angels? Well, yeah, but since when did they start killing off people?"

"Maybe they just want to finish the job," Pamela said frowning.

"Wait. You don't think it was Cas, do you?" Bobby asked, remembering that it was said angel who made her lose her vision in the first place.

"Bobby, I don't know what to think. All I know is that something kills me with a sword, and, right now, the only thing we know for sure is that angels happen to be quite good at pulling them out of their asses."

Bobby hesitated. "I'll go look up some angel warding. You wanna come or—"

"Like hell I'm staying _here_ alone," Pamela said. "I'll go get my jacket."

She got up and used her psychic abilities to sense out where her leather jacket was before following Bobby outside to his truck.

"You need any help?' Bobby asked, lending out his arm for her to take, just in case.

"Put away that shining armor right now, Singer," Pamela growled. "You may be a Hunter, but to me you'll always be a hillbilly. I'm fine."

"Well, alright then," Bobby said, following the sassy blind lady to his truck.

Bobby drove them off to the library, where he spent countless hours reading and researching between angel lore in every book he could find— from the Bible to children's' books like Grandpa Angel. He didn't bother calling in Cas for this one—how was he supposed to assume that the angel hadn't gone dark side? Research was one of the most boring parts about being a Hunter, but it was necessary. Bobby knew damned well that he would be a fool to stick his neck out for a monster to hack off without at least a shield of knowledge protecting him. He jotted down notes and pictures from various works.

"You got anything yet?" Pamela asked edgily, looking over her shoulder and trying to sense any supernatural presences around.

"Yeah," Bobby said, closing the last of his books. "Okay, let's go set up base."

* * *

><p><em>(The Sixth of September) With Cas…<em>

"Where are the Winchesters?" Uriel demanded, looking into Cas's face. "They should be here right now."

Cas took a deep breath and said, "The psychic only received the vision yesterday."

"Three days it took for that vision. Why did it take so long, Castiel?"

"Seeing into the future takes time," Cas responded.

"Is that the best lie you can come up with?" Uriel snorted, feeling that his brother's excuse was nothing short of absurd. "I am disappointed in you, Brother."

"It is not a lie. It simply took longer then anticipated," Cas said defensively.

"Longer then _who_ anticipated," Uriel said slowly. "You? Or I?"

Cas paused, looking straight at Uriel's dark eyes. "Both of us."

Uriel looked over the man in the trench coat who Castiel was currently possessing. "You are not lying to me, Castiel?"

"No," Cas said shaking his head.

Uriel seemed to have accepted the answer. "May I assume there is news you wish to disclose with me?"

Cas nodded his head. "Pamela Barnes has made a call for protection, but not to the Winchesters. She called Bobby Singer."

Uriel took a moment to let the information sink in. "Why?"

Cas shrugged. "Dean or Sam may have not received her call."

"Why not?"

"Maybe she does not have International calling? I am not completely sure of how the cellular phone operating system works," Cas admitted.

"Do you have any idea of how the Winchesters can be contacted?"

"Yes," Cas said. "Dean has a hawk. Once he writes, I suspect Bobby will reply and try to get Dean to come in and help."

"You suspect?"

"Yes."

"And how long do you 'suspect' it will take Dean to write back?"

"Honestly, I would have thought he'd have written by now. He shouldn't take too much longer."

Uriel looked Castiel over once again and said, "Okay. Come back with good news."

Cas nodded and vanished.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yeah, kinda a filler but whatcha gonna do?_

_Suuki-Aldrea: Hope you got your answers_

_Lieutenant Winter: Yeah, Jared Padalecki is a friggin' awesome actor. Well, 'cept for House of Wax but that wasn't really his fault (it was those damned writers and the stupid script…that movie actually sucked)_

_Akira Muratake: Yeah there's more F&G in a few chapters. As for Dean, let's not forget his golden rule: "shoot first and ask questions later"_

_Basia Orci: Thanks_

_INMH: Thanks a ton :) Yeah, I really wanted to do that chapter for the longest time, and I'm gland you liked how it panned out._

_BlackWolf2013: Hehe, I can't tell you (mwahehe)_

_Greeniron: You're welcome_

_Spiked Reyndrop: Well, since Luna's a year below them, she's not really going to show up in every other chapter. But I did plop her in a chapter somewhere in the future_

_Illucida: Personally I love umbridge as a villain. She's just so evil. :)_

_lisa demonic angel: maaayybeeee ;)_

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed, story-alerted, favorited, or read!_

_Once again, everyone have a happy holiday and a awesome new year! Review if you wanna. Bye-bye._


	22. Quidditch and Other Awkward Things

_A/N: سلام (Persian…yeah, I can't read it either)_

_Christmas has been a blast over here. Spending time with my insane family in NJ, and eating Subway for dinner everyday (which is weird because we have leftovers but hey, whatcha gonna do). Hope you guys are all having fantastic holidays. Happy New Year! :)_

_Disclaimer: Not even Santa could give me ownership of Harry Potter and Supernatural._

* * *

><p><em>(The Sixth of September) End of seventh period with Harry…<em>

Harry was sweaty and hesitant. He pulled his robes back around his shoulders and contemplated whether or not he should approach the Winchesters. Maybe he should thank them; that _would_ be polite. But still, Sam remained a conundrum—one second lurking in the halls of Hogwarts and the next, risking his neck for Harry. This guy bounced back and fourth more than a ping-pong ball in a Muggle table-tennis tournament. Though Dean hadn't done anything wrong as far as Harry could tell.

"Harry," Ron called from the door of the locker room, "you coming?"

"I'll be there in a second," Harry called back as he finished putting the last of his Muggle clothes that Mrs. Weasley had bought for him in his rucksack. He walked to the back of the seemingly empty locker room and to one of the sinks in the shower area. After splashing some water onto his face and drying it with the end of his robes, he heard whispering behind him. He put his glasses back on and crept along the edge of the wall to check it out.

"…Saw him a few weeks ago in Borgin and Burkes," the unmistakably cold voice of Draco Malfoy whispered. "This lady, Ruby, wanted to talk to him and made me to go get him from outside…but she wasn't, I dunno, human, I guess. She had these black eyes."

Malfoy paused in the memory, giving Crabbe a chance to ask, "Well, what did she want him for?"

"She gave him,"—Harry leaned in to get a better listen but accidently bumped into the rubbish bin he was standing behind—"Who's there?" Malfoy demanded, whipping his wand out and striding over to where Harry stood. "Potter? Spying I presume? I should have known. Hasn't your mum ever taught you not to eavesdrop on people before? Oh wait, I forgot, she stopped breathing before she had the chance to."

Harry pulled out his wand, mirroring Malfoy and demanded, "You were talking about Professor Sam, weren't you? What did she give him, Malfoy?"

"What makes you think that, Potter," Malfoy sneered. "It's the first week of school and you're already suspicious of the new Defense professor."

"I learn from my mistakes," Harry said, remembering Quirrell, Lockhart, and Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise as Moody—lining them up like that, Harry realized he really did have quite the streak of bad luck.

Malfoy snorted before gaining a certain look that made Harry both uncomfortable and cagey. "How about a deal? I'll tell you what she gave him if you tell me what happened between Umbridge and them last night."

So rumors were already beginning to spread about what had happened last night. Harry silently cursed the Hogwarts' rumor mill for giving Malfoy any insight—accurate or inaccurate—on what happened. "What makes you think I was there?"

"I have my sources," Malfoy said tauntingly tossing his words in the air as he spoke. He stuck out his hand to Harry and said, "So do we have a deal?"

Harry looked at Malfoy's pale hand and contemplated the choice. Was information on Professor Sam really as valuable as the events of the previous night? Harry decided quickly, took Malfoy's hand, and shook it with a firm grip. "The Winchesters didn't like…something that Umbridge was doing and they attacked her in her personal study. Ron and I saw and went to McGonagall for help. By the time we got there, Umbridge's classroom was a wreck—her balcony was pretty smashed up, Professor Dean was on a broken desk below her, and Professor Sam was flung down the stairs."

"Serves them right. God, I never even realized how pigheaded Muggles can be—going around picking fights with their superiors," Malfoy sneered to Crabbe and Goyle, who were standing like bodyguards behind him. "Though that doesn't explain Sam's new specs."

"Maybe he was hit by a spell or something," Harry said offhandedly. "Now what did that lady give him?"

Malfoy eyed Harry before saying, "A flask."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise, remembering the flask Sam had drank from in the Great Hall during the beginning of term feast. "Was it silver?"

Malfoy nodded.

"Did she mention what was in it?"

"If she did, I didn't hear. She said he would know what was inside though."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

"Well…thanks, I guess," Harry said awkwardly. Malfoy sneered his lip up in a demeaning manner, and took his small gang with him from the locker room.

Harry strode back onto the Pitch and started to leave, but stopped himself. The Winchesters were still there waiting for their seventh period class to arrive any second. Now would be as good a time as ever. He sighed to himself before turning around and approaching them. Their backs were both turned away from him as the talked lightly to one another—Dean saying something about "four-eyes" and Sam retorting with something about a "scholar".

"Um," Harry started so not to surprise them with his presence too much. When they turned around and looked down at him, he said, "I just wanted to thank you for what you did last night. So thanks."

"It was no problem, Harry," Sam said.

"Don't bullshit the kid, of course it was a problem," Dean said curtly. Harry looked up at Dean unsure of whether he should want to hex his professor or hear him out. "But it was a worth-it problem."

Harry raised his eyebrows, uncertain as to if he should be insulted or grateful. He decided not to say anything to that. "Well…okay then."

"Take it easy, kid," Dean called as Harry began to leave the Pitch.

* * *

><p><em>(The Sixth of September) With the Winchesters…<em>

Septimas Vector turned out to be quite the Quidditch fan. He was currently explaining something he called The Chudley Cannons and Tutshill Tornados to the Winchesters as he dragged them along to the Pitch.

"…Of course, the Cannons lost. The Tornados have had a brilliant winning streak recently, you know. They look like they're going to win the League Cup this year. They've only won it four times and the last time was in 1854."

"1854? How long's this game been around exactly?" Sam asked curiously.

"1674," Septimas said proudly. "The Ballycastle Bats won that year. Though it wasn't very well documented."

Dean snorted. "Gee, I wonder why."

The trio reached the Pitch, and took their seats in the stands with a few other spectators, Septimas still chatting away while Sam and Dean took in the ragtag group on the Pitch. Angelina Johnson—who was an excellent runner, from what the brothers had noted during lessons—stood before them with Harry, the Weasley twins, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell. Angelina said something to Harry, provoking a smirk from him, before yelling for the attention of the rookies.

Everyone immediately quieted down, sparking a glow of pride in Dean—she was using the very same tactics that he and Sam used to discipline their students. Sam turned and saw his brother grinning like a fool, causing him to adjust his glasses and scrunch up his eyebrows as he wondered what could possibly be making his brother so happy. He nudged Dean, causing the shorter man to look over at him.

Knowing exactly what Sam's facial expressions were asking, Dean pointed to the captain and said, "She's learning."

Sam rolled his eyes, but couldn't resist a smile himself—the first week of school was only just coming to a close and students were already using tidbits that they'd picked up in their Defense class in a productive manner. The team that Angelina was already leading mounted their brooms and took to the sky—making Dean both nervous and excited. They took some laps while Angelina chanted out several more instructions to the newbies. Then everyone on the ground—including Ron Weasley, Andrew Kirke, Vicky Frobisher, Geoffrey Hooper, and two other Gryffindors—took off, closely followed by the Captain. They all took laps, dodging a ball that Septimas called "the Bludger". Within seconds, Ron was practically tail spinning to keep the malicious ball from knocking him from his broom.

"He's gonna friggin' hurt himself," Dean exclaimed, standing up as if doing so would help keep the poor Weasley kid from meeting the floor with his face.

"That's Quidditch," Septimas said lightly.

"No," Dean corrected pointedly, "that's suicide."

"Dean," Sam said sharply, tugging his brother's sleeve to try to get him to sit down.

"Don't tell me what to do," Dean said childishly, pulling his sleeve from Sam's reach before reluctantly reseating himself. "They're gonna fall or something, damnit! Is today opposite day or something, 'cause I'm pretty sure I might very well be the only teacher here that gives a damn about their"—he pointed to the flying students—"well-being."

Septimas rolled his eyes and said, "They're not going to hurt themselves."

"_Ahhhh! Help!"_

They looked up and saw Hooper dangling from his broom by the ends of his fingertips while Ron floated above, panicking and yelling apologies for setting the Bludger on Hooper's tail in the first place. Dean stood up once again with his eyes wide and his jaw hanging slack.

"_See_," Septimas said, "no one's gotten hurt."

"Quit messing around Hooper," Angelina shouted. "We're gonna take goal shots."

The rookies messily lined up about fifty feet from the ground, with Kirke taking the goals. Angelina, Alicia, Katie and the twins took turns taking shots with a red ball, pelting it at him until the poor kid was knocked through one of the goals.

"Next!"

When none of the hesitant rookies stepped up - or rather flew up - Fred yelled, "C'mon, we don't have all day!"

While one of the younger kids flew to the goals, Sam caught sight of Harry, who suddenly soared up at a ninety-degree angle at top-speed for no apparent reason. "What's Harry doing?"

"Harry's the Seeker," Septimas explained. "It's his job to chase this little ball called the Golden Snitch. He's probably just seen it."

"Next!"

Tryouts continued on to the point where three of the rookies were being led to the Hospital Wing after either being hit by the Bludger, falling off a broom, or breaking a nose for debatable reasons. The best score that a player had gotten so far was a four out of five saves, done neatly by Vicky Frobisher.

"Come on, little bro!" Fred yelled.

"You're up!" George added, sharing a smirk with his twin.

Ron shakily flew up to the goals and faced the team. Katie took the first shot, which Ron barely managed to stop by zooming towards the goal at the far left and taking a blow to the shoulder. Even from the distance, those in the stands could see his face flame up as red as his hair.

"Go, Ron!" Hermione chanted encouragingly.

Fred and George each took their Quaffles and chucked one at the center goal and the other at the far right goal. Ron quickly spun around, nearly falling off his broom, and raced at them. He deflected the middle Quaffle by taking a hit to his side, and the second by getting knocked in the head.

"He's not nearly that clumsy in class," Sam noted.

"Well he's not exactly Muhammad Ali either," Dean said, watching as Angelina chucked the Quaffle straight through the center goal, as Ron recovered.

"Who's that?" Septimas asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You said you grew up with Muggles! How could you not know Ali?"

Septimas shrugged.

"You didn't watch boxing did you?"

"No."

Dean shook his head in disappointment.

"Oh _please_, Dean," Sam said taking his turn in an eye roll, "half the time you're watching your soaps—"

"Hey!" Dean defended. "It's better than what you watch—getting kicks from friggin' Discovery Channel and Animal Planet. Could you be anymore nerd? Wait. Don't answer that."

"Yeah, whatever," Sam snorted, diverting his attention back to the Pitch.

Alicia was passed a Quaffle for the last shot and wound up. As the ball began to leave her fingers, her broom suddenly swerved to the side, knocking her balance and making the force of the shot weaker. Ron caught the ball easily in his hands and looked down at it like a confused child. "Is that it?"

Angelina whistled loudly, making anyone within 100 yards of her flinch. "That's it for today. The results will be up in the common room tomorrow. You're all dismissed."

Everyone hovered down to the ground, Ron managing to fall flat on his face the moment his shoes made contact with solid floor. Sam looked down and saw Harry inspecting something in his hand, a hint of pride in his smirk. Harry glanced over at Ron and the rest of the team, before bringing his attention up to the stands, shock smudging his features.

Sam, Dean, and Septimas began to leave the stands as Harry raced up the stairs and made his way through. He passed his professors, and even Hermione who was headed towards the Pitch to give Ron some much needed moral support. "Um…hi," he said as he reached Cho Chang.

"Hold up a second," Dean muttered to Sam and Septimas, as he watched the two kids. "I wanna see this."

"Dean," Sam tried to reprimand curtly.

"_Shhhh_."

"Hi, Harry," Cho said slowly.

"What are you, uh, doing here?" he asked nervously, with an awkward half-grin on his face.

"I'm not spying if that's what you're getting at."

"No, no, of course not," Harry said quickly. Cho smiled a little and they stood there with each other awkwardly for a few moments.

"I think you did really well out there," Cho said.

"Thanks," Harry said his eyes nervously dipping from Cho's to pretty much everywhere else giving him a "I'm-waiting-for-a-late-train' kind of look. "You did too…wait, I mean, when you play…you're, er, a good Quidditch player…too."

Cho chuckled a little before said, "Okay, er, bye, Harry."

"Um, bye, Cho."

Harry watched her leave the stands, a blush erupting on his cheeks when he noticed his professors watching him—Dean grinning like an idiot. "Real smooth. 'You're a good Quidditch player?' _Really_? Come on, man, you can do better than that."

Harry looked down suddenly fascinated with his shoes and fiddled with his fingers around his broomstick. "Yeah, maybe I could work on that."

"_Maybe_?" Dean questioned, raising his eyebrows so high that they practically skimmed the sky. "You ever dated a girl before?"

"…Um…"

"Look, you've gotta be assertive, kid. Let her know who's in charge," Dean said slapping his hand onto Harry's shoulder and leading him out of the stands.

"Yeah, but how?"

"Well, first off, no stuttering—that's a turn-off on so many levels," Dean instructed. "Second, when you're talking to her, act like you're wearing a cape, okay? You've gotta tap into your inner Gryffin-thingy or whatever."

"Gryffindor," Sam supplied.

"Right. Thirdly, words don't matter."

"What?" Harry asked, surprise wound into his tone.

"Words. They don't matter. Women are emotional, not logical."

"Dean, that's not true," Sam said, stopping his brother's brainwashing before he got to Harry.

"Okay, well in _most_ cases women are emotional and not logical. All they care about is that you talk to them about something you're passionate about. If you're getting bored with the conversation, so will she; and if you're being _awkward_ in a conversation, so will she—but you've already learned that the hard way now, haven't you?"—Harry blushed, looking at everything but Dean—"While you're doing this, it is imperative to act like you're someone cool."

"What about being myself?"

Dean snorted. "Not unless 'yourself' is someone cool."

"Don't listen to him, Harry," Sam said, giving his brother a disapproving look. "It's fine to be yourself."

"Stop kidding him," Dean moaned. "His old enough to know the truth about dating. Besides, this is the same advice I gave you when you were his age."

"Like I ever followed it," Sam said, noting how uncomfortable Harry looked as he bit his lip down below them.

"Harry, don't be influenced by Sam's mistakes—"

"—My 'mistakes' lead to long term relationships, _Dean_."

"You say that like it's a good thing."

Harry looked up, eyes glancing between Dean and Sam before suddenly slapping his hand to his forehead from the shock of a jolt zapping through his scar. "Er…thanks, I guess."

"Don't mention it."

Harry rushed off to Ron and Hermione before beginning to walk back to the castle—Hermione prying into Harry in order to try to figure out what the Winchesters could have possibly said to him that made him so beat red and then hurt his scar.

Sam looked at his brother with a full-force bitchface.

"What?" Dean asked. "I didn't say anything that wasn't true."

"You're trying to pimp out Harry Potter. You're a _teacher_, Dean."

"Yeah, and I'm educating him in reality. That's how relationships work."

"No, that how _your _relationships work—and they barely last for a full night."

"Once again, you say that like it's a bad thing."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Okey-dokey. Once again, I hope you all had a happy holiday of some variety (Kwanzaa, Christmas, Boxing Day, Hanukkah, take your pick) and a good New Year!_

_Lieutenant Winter: Well, the glasses were sort of a mixed combination of heavy spell-work, good aim (cause se hit him square in the eyes), and demon blood. Plus, I think Umbridge would have been particularly good at that spell just 'cause of how she's always trying to get people to see things the Ministry's way and failing miserably…unless you're a Slytherin. I kinda imagined that if the spell had hit Dean that way, he'd be blind, but since Sam has demon blood all up in him, he only gets glasses. Besides, I've got further plans for them._

_Suuki-Aldrea: Hope you liked this_

_sandcrawlr: Likewise :)_

_Illucida: Thanks a lot!_

_lexzly: Yeah, I wish they could stay there longer too.__ Thx._

_Basia Orci: Thanks_

_Who Are You What Do You Want: LOL_

_BlackWolf2013: Yeah, Umbridge is a b****._

_Akira Muratake: Yeah, Dean totally will :D_

_lisa demonic angel: hope your new year is just as awesome!_

_Lanna-Nailo: Thanks. Hope you enjoyed_

_INMH: Yeah, I had to change that line from it's original in order to finally polish it into that. I needed a good snort-worthy line outta Pamela :)_

Once again I'd like to thank everyone who Reviewed, Story-Alerted, Favorited, or Read. It was a Christmas gift in its own :)

_Have a great New Year (again) and review if you want to. __خداحافظی (it looks like scribble but I swear it says Goodbye) :)_


	23. God Knows I'm Good

_A/N: Hey there :)_

_*ducks into fall-out shelter* Gah! don't pelt me with small projectiles…or large ones for that matter..._

_Yeah, I haven't been on for a while…sorry 'bout that. No, I'm not abandoning this, I just had midterms and about a thousand other things (aka: GSA meetings, Literary Magazine meetings, tests pretty much every other day, homework, School of Rock lessons, band practice, ect.) (yes, yes I'm complaining. Onwards -) Yeah, this month's been pretty hectic (…silly word). Oh, and I've got my first job interview tomorrow (it's for a library…which is fitting). Oh yeah, and I also managed to run my way through 6 seasons of Doctor Who, 5 seasons of The Sarah Jane Adventures, and 4 seasons of Torchwood…no complaints there…it was fun…. :D_

_Disclaimer: Yeah, as if I owned Supernatural or Harry Potter._

* * *

><p><em>(The Seventh of September) Breakfast time with Harry…<em>

"Sturgis Podmore has been sentenced to Azkaban for six months," Hermione puffed as she reached Harry where Harry and Ron were eating at the Gryffindor table.

"What?" Harry questioned, after swallowing some scrambled eggs down his gullet.

"Sturgis is in Azkaban."

"Wait, isn't he part of the Order?"

Hermione nodded. "He wasn't there the day we were all supposed to go on the Hogwarts Express. He was breaking into a door in the Ministry of Magic. Here, read this."

She passed the boys her issue of _The Daily Prophet_, which they quickly scanned through. Ron spoke up first, "Well, he was probably Impursed then, wasn't he?"

"That's what I thought," Hermione agreed.

"That would explain why Voldemort was happy last night," Harry commented.

"Happy?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, I was thinking about it last night and I realized it wasn't just pain in my scar. There was happiness."

"Oh, so your heads bursting at the seams and you're happy about it," Ron said sarcastically. "Delightful."

"Be serious, _Ron_," Hermione scolded while Harry glared daggers into him. Ron raised his hands in surrender.

"Another thing," Harry said. "Yesterday, when I was in the locker room, I heard Malfoy talking to Crabbe and Goyle about Sam."

"What'd he say?"

"Well, remember that flask he drank out of the first night?"—The pair nodded—"Malfoy said that this lady named Ruby gave it to him."

"What's in it?" Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. "She said he would know."

"And that's it?"

"Well...Malfoy doesn't think she was human."

"What?" Ron asked shocked.

"Why? Hermione followed up.

"He, er, he claimed that she had black eyes. You ever hear about anything like that?"

Hermione shook her head. "I'm going to research it. I'll be in—"

"—The library," Harry and Ron finished in unison.

Hermione rolled her eyes and got up, indignantly striding from the Great Hall without even a spot of breakfast. Ron spun his legs over the bench and leaned back casually against the table, a sigh leaving his lips as he watched Hermione walk away.

"What's got you so pleasant?" Harry asked, right before scooping more eggs into his mouth.

"Huh?" Ron said surprised. "Oh, um, just happy that I, er, made the team, that's all."

"Okay," Harry said after he'd swallowed.

* * *

><p><em>(The Eighth of September) With the Winchesters… <em>

"I hope you don't mind if I use the advice you gave Harry," Septimas said, as he joined the Winchesters at the staff table during lunchtime.

"What?" the boys asked in unison.

"Well," the Arithmancy teacher started, "there's this professor that I've been hoping to take out to Hogsmeade for a while, but I didn't know how exactly I should approach her until you gave Harry that advice."

"Oh," Dean noted, wondering exactly who they were speaking of. "Who's the lucky lady?"

Septimas grinned like a fool and looked over at one of the teachers sitting nearby. "Aurora Sinistra. She teaches Astronomy."

"Where you gonna take her?"

"Well, I'm debating whether or not I should meet her at the astronomy tower with a picnic basket or sneak out to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop on Hogsmeade."

"What the hell kind of name is that?"

Septimas shrugged. "Hey, I didn't name it."

Dean seemed to contemplate something in his mind for a moment or so before concluding, "Take the risk—chicks dig risky."

Not knowing what to do with himself at that comment, Septimas simply smiled awkwardly. "…Yeah."

"Good luck," Sam said, smiling at the raven-haired man.

"Thanks."

The sudden sound of flapping wings echoed throughout the Great Hall as hundreds of owls of every variety swooped in and landed where the kids they belonged to were seated. A fluffy-feathered, tawny owl holding a thick piece of folded parchment in it's beak landed in front of Septimas, knocking over a tall stack of pancakes as it did so. The Arithmancy teacher took the paper and gave the owl some Knuts before it took off and left the Hall.

"Oh no."

"What?" Dean asked, peeking at his issue of _The Daily Prophet_.

"Umbridge."

The trio took turns reading the front-page article, which described how Umbridge was becoming the "First-Ever 'High Inquisitor'". None of them seemed particularly pleased with this, but Sam, of all people, seemed a peg more lax about the situation than both Dean and Septimas combined.

"Aren't you worried?" Septimas asked Sam in a mildly confused tone. "You two are the ones' she'll be the most harsh with after all—you know, being Muggles and all."

Sam simply shrugged and proceeded in spooning some cereal into his mouth.

* * *

><p><em>(The Tenth of September) With Cas… <em>

Cas was lurking, invisible to the naked human eye. Bobby had painted symbols he thought would keep angels at bay with spray paint, but they consisted of enough inaccuracies to allow Cas inside. Bobby was currently sleeping on the couch despite the fact that Pamela had offered him the guest room—he had said something about not wanting to leave the door unguarded "just in case." Not that a mere human would be able to do too much against an angel.

Castiel should have killed Pamela by now—it was not like the opportunity was any further than a finger snap away. But he was waiting, pushing it off. He had to make sure Bobby didn't get hurt or else the hawk might not be able to find him, and the only way to guarantee the man's safety was to hold off any attack. Once the hawk arrived, Castiel would murder the psychic and intercept the letter Bobby intended on sending back, replacing it with his own under Bobby's signature. This would work. It had to.

Right now, all he could do was wait. He was usually fine with that—he'd been trained with the whole "patience is a virtue" quote engraved into his brain—but was finding the time he had alone with his thoughts was troubling. Uriel had said it himself, this was a "direct order," and God hadn't stopped him in following through with it. But he _still_ had doubt—doubt that seemed to have chained itself to Cas since the moment he received the order. He hadn't been trained to deal with personal emotions so they remained a shock to him when he realized that he even had any.

His mind wandered in hope that he would become sure of something—of anything. "He who never doubted, never half believed. Where doubt is, the truth is—it is her shadow." Philip James Bailey had said that—a holy man and current resident of Heaven. Cas had visited his Heaven once and learnt the quote from the dead man himself. Now he found himself conflicted as to if doubt was right or wrong. But if this was wrong, why was no one stopping him? Surely someone would know the right thing. Why wasn't he being stopped?

"You look uncertain."

Cas snapped his head to the side and saw Anna Milton, her eyes glowing in defiance. She wore the same blue jeans, button-up white shirt, and black leather jacket Cas had last seen her in. He cocked his head to the side slightly like a pigeon introduced to politics and asked, "Why are you here?"

"I could be asking you the same thing."

"I have orders. What is your excuse?"

"To try to get you to stop and think, Cas," she sighed. "You're not really planning to kill her, right?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Are you?"

Cas paused. "I am not sure."

"Cas, you don't have to do this."

"What is my other option? Rebel?"

"Yes, Cas."

Cas frowned. Maybe he didn't want an answer to his doubt after all.

* * *

><p><em>(The Twelfth of September) With Dean… <em>

Dean walked back into his room after another long day of educating and listening to Septimas drone on and on about his most recent date with Aurora—the guy was crazy for her. As for class, they still had another week or two of basic training to go before they started to get around to the real training.

He lied down on his bed, relaxed his muscles, and shut his eyes. It was only a matter of seconds before his door was flung open, causing Dean to snap his eyes back open despite his desperate need of some well-earned sleep.

"Did you get one?" Sam stood in the doorway looking to Dean with a partially curious and partially mad face.

"One what?"

Sam shut the door and strode over to Dean's bedside dresser. He picked up a pink envelope that had been sitting idly on top of it, thrust it into Dean's chest, and said, "This."

Dean looked at it curiously for a moment before tearing it open and reading the light pink parchment contained within. "Umbridge is gonna inspect our class?"

"That's what she thinks," Sam said defiantly. "When she comes, let me do the talking, okay?"

Dean nodded and pulled himself out of his bed, trying to let the fact that Umbridge had been in his room while he wasn't there sink in—it was a weird thought, Umbridge rifling through his stuff in that pink cardigan of hers. He dug for a T-shirt in his duffle, eventually pulling a loose black one out. "Are you gonna leave so I can change, or what?"

"Why are you still using your duffle? You've got a closet now," Sam said, pointing at the dusty wardrobe. Dean shrugged. "I bet you haven't even opened it yet."

Dean rolled his eyes and got up, walking over to the wooden door of the wardrobe and yanking it open. "There. Happy?"

"_YOU KILLED ME_!"

Dean's head snapped to the side just in time to see John Winchester jump out of the closet and tackle him to the ground. Dean looked up at his father's bloody body long believed dead. Why was his dad's living corpse in the wardrobe? Whatever the reason, it was pissed and caught the remaining Winchesters off guard—leaving them both at loss at what to say or do.

"Dad?" Dean choked, as his father fiercely glared down at him, his calloused hands wringing his son's throat while the kid was still in shock. His father's fist collided repeatedly with his face—which was enough to snap Sam from his own personal stupor and get him up and into action.

Sam ran over to where his father was viciously beating his brother, throwing his 6'4' body straight into John Winchester's and knocking him off of Dean. "You're not alive!" he shouted at his dad. "I watched your body burn! You're dead!"

Suddenly the body beneath him spontaneously burst into flames, making Sam immediately jump off it so not to get burned—though some of his clothes did get singed like the edge of his left sleeve and the knee of his jeans. The flaming body rose, revealing itself as his old girlfriend during her last moments.

"Jess?"

"I died, Sam, and _this_ is what you do?" she said, flames burning within her eyes even more than all the rest of her body. "You're a monster!"

She raised her arm, throwing Sam across the room with a force of energy and breaking down the door in the process. Sam's glasses were tossed off his face and landed several feet away from him, rendering him both weak and blind. Jess stormed towards him and lifted him by the collar of his flannel shirt using strength only acquired by the paranormal.

"Let go! Jess!" he shouted, trying not to look into his deceased girlfriend's disappointed face. He was losing oxygen, but something within him refused to fight back against the woman he once loved. "Please, Jess."

"Hey!"

Jess turned and saw Septimas standing in the hall with his wand drawn. She released Sam, leaving him in a weak heap on the floor. The flaming body quickly changed its form, morphing into a lady with long black hair that cascaded to the small of her back. "_Freak_! You're not my son! You're not even human! You're a—"

"_Riddikulus_!"

The lady morphed once more when the charm hit her, but this time into a jack o' lantern with oversized buckteeth and braces carved into it. Septimas chuckled a little bit, enough to make the thing to vanish on the spot.

"You okay?" Septimas asked, walking over to Sam.

"Dean," he choked out. "Go check on Dean."

"_Accio _chocolate," Septimas said, flourishing his wand. Within seconds, a bar of chocolate flew into the wizard's hand. He quickly broke a bit off and shoved it into Sam's hands. "Eat it. You'll feel better."

Sam looked at it uncertainly.

"Well go on," Septimas ushered. "It's just chocolate. It's a natural cure for pretty much anything."

Sam nibbled it uncertainly as Septimas walked over to where Dean was slowly pulling himself together in his room. Septimas broke the last of the chocolate in half, handing part to Dean and keeping half for himself.

"Cheers," he said taking a bite from his slice.

Dean munched on the chocolate, rubbing at his face, which he was pretty sure had been bruised. "What was that thing?"

"A boggart. Real nasty things they are. They feed off fear, assuming the form of the thing you fear most."

"How'd you kill it?"

"Well it can only be banished by the Riddikulus charm. That makes it turn into something you find humorous so long as you are concentrating on making it do so. Its weakness is laughter."

"Wait, are you telling me that it would have stopped friggin' beating me into next week if I'd just _laughed_ at it?"

Septimas shrugged. "Maybe. But you're a Muggle so it might not have worked."

"Oh," Dean heard himself say as he caught sight of his brother getting up. Dean made his legs propel him across the room and into the hallway trying to catch up to the retreating giant he called his brother. "Sam, you okay?"

"Fine," Sam said curtly as he entered his room.

Dean looked at the floor and picked up his brother glasses. He checked them over and realized that there wasn't even a scratch on them. Madam Pomfrey wasn't kidding when she called them indestructible. Dean opened his brother's door and went over to where Sam was sitting hunched over on his bed.

"What?"

"You dropped these," Dean said, passing the glasses over. "You wanna…talk? 'Cause I'm here—."

"I said I'm fine," Sam said bluntly. "Goodnight."

Dean looked down and sighed, "Yeah, okay. 'Night."

Once the door was securely closed, Sam got up and went into his duffle, pulling out one of the few items he kept in it—his flask. He unscrewed the cap, took a sip from it, and felt the effects of it start to settle in, tingling under the surface of his skin as power surged through his body. He stowed the flask away before retrieving his glasses and shoved them onto his face. The vision had immensely changed in them though—he wasn't nearly as near-sighted as he had been before. Maybe it had something to do with the contents of his flask.

He went into his wardrobe and pulled out a T-shirt and green plaid boxers to sleep in. He quickly dressed before giving in to sleep, skipping his nightly tour of the castle.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Not doing review questions this time. Maybe next chappie._

SUPER-DUPER Thanks to all of you for putting up with my late timing. And Super-Duper-…Gooper(?) Thanks to Everyone That Reviewed, Read, Story-Alerted, or Favorited! 


	24. How Not To Get Things Done

_A/N: Alo :) (Haitian Creole)_

_…Well, I'm back. Thanks to everyone whose putting up with my slow updates. I've really been ridiculously busy lately. Got this week off, and not too much homework though so, yes, I'm gonna write my butt off._

_Disclaimer: No, I still do not claim ownership over Supernatural or Harry Potter…yet..._

* * *

><p><em>(The Thirteenth of September) With Sam and Dean during seventh period… <em>

Class had barely started before Sam saw a pink blob getting bigger and bigger as it neared the Pitch, slowly morphing into the pink hag, Professor Umbridge. Sam turned his back on her and joined Dean in the middle of the field with the rest of the class.

As Sam tapped Dean on the shoulder, the shorter man barked out, "Fifteen jumping jacks. Now!"

"We've got company," Sam breathed to his brother.

"That was quick," Dean murmured in a low key.

"_Hem_ _hem_," a frilly girlish voice coughed out behind them. They both half turned to face the woman standing about five feet out of their arm's length. She looked them over, with a fake wide grin pushing up her pouchy cheeks. She had to tilt her head quite at a sharp angle in order to see both of their faces—Sam's looking particularly sharp with his glasses sitting idly on the bridge of his nose and Dean's still quite mottled from his boggart encounter. She straightened out her spine to try to make herself seem a bit taller in comparison to the giants standing before her. "I hope you have received my note telling you the time and date of my inspection."

Sam and Dean's eyes shared a glance with one another.

"Ten laps!" Dean shouted to the class, who obeyed without question or hesitation for fear of having Zimmerman catch up to them and start pecking at their heads and ears.

Sam retrieved the pink note from the back pocket of his jeans and said, "Yeah, we did actually."

Dean joined his brother's side as Sam unfolded the parchment and pushed his glasses up with his pinky the way he had made a habit of doing whenever he was about to make a point—it was a sure sign of a dork with a purpose in Dean's opinion.

"But I think you've made a mistake," Sam said, moving the conversation in the direction his lawyer instincts felt would be best. "Or you _will_ at least."

"A mistake?" she repeated.

"Yes. See the thing is that if you were to follow through with this 'inspection', it would be in fragment of the terms of your teaching here," Sam said as if explaining Shakespeare to an unusually pink pigeon. "You _were_ informed of the terms of your teaching here, right?"

"Yes," Umbridge huffed, poorly trying to conceal the true extent of how much she hated being talked down to by the Muggle with her bitter cheerful tone.

"Well then you will also know that if you were permitted to, how did you put it?"—He ran a finger down the note until he found the line he was looking for—"Here it is. 'Inspect the happenings of your'—meaning Dean and mine's—'Defense Against the Dark Arts course' you would consequently be interrupting our class, and, by default, breaking your Minister's terms. You would be fired for that."

"I have permission from the Minister of Magic himself—"

"Which works good and well for all the other professors…just not us," Sam explained, trying to handle the entire situation as professionally as possible—though a part of him wanted nothing more than to pop her fat little head off. "See, _we_ have permission to teach without interruption—nothing more, nothing less. Fudge already broke one of the two terms when he allowed that _Daily Prophet _article to be published during the summer. To cross this last boundary would leave Dumbledore no other choice than to have you fired and potentially expelled from the grounds."

Umbridge looked like she's been slapped in the face—more than that, she looked like a goldfish taken from its bowl by none other than Lucifer himself. Dean took this opportunity to pitch in with a sarcastic, "I dunno, Sammy. Do you feel interrupted?"

"Slightly," Sam said, nodding in agreement, feeling up his victory.

"Fine then," Umbridge growled squeakily, lowering her quill and clipboard, "we'll see this your way."

As Umbridge left, Dean grinned at his brother. "Nice job, Stanford!"

* * *

><p><em>(The Thirteenth of September) With Hermione in the library later that day...<em>

_It doesn't make sense_, Hermione thought as she rifled through what felt like her thousandth book. So far she hadn't found anything on black eyes or anyone named "Ruby" anywhere. She had been going through book after book for nearly a week and all she had was nothing! It was times like these when she wished she had her laptop from home; that would definitely save her the painstaking process of reading every book in the library and hoping for the best.

"Hello," an airy voice said from above her. "Are you alright? Your head's filled with a particularly numerous amount of Wrackspurts right now."

Hermione looked up and saw Luna standing at the other side of the table she was working at, with her radish earrings dangling exotically from her earlobes, and a large pair of sparkly glasses that looked like she might have made them with construction paper and glitter. "Hi, Luna."

"May I sit here?"

Hermione held back a sigh and tried not to let her reluctance show plainly on her face, feeling that would be too rude for her standards. "If you can find room."

"Okay," she said pulling out the chair and seating herself in it. As Hermione dug into the books she had spread out on the table again, Luna asked, "What are you researching?"

Hermione bit her the inside of her cheek in frustration and said, "If you must know, I'm not sure."

"That's funny," she commented. Thoughtfully, she added, "Though it would explain the Wrackspurts."

"Yeah, okay, Luna."

"Perhaps I can help you?" Luna proposed making it sound like a question.

Hermione eyed the blonde witch suspiciously. "Why would you want to help me?"

"Simply to form a friendship—you didn't seem very keen on me on the train or in the stagecoach at all," she said lightly, talking the way a falling feather might.

Hermione couldn't help but feel a bit sorry about that—she truly hadn't meant to allow her adverse feelings for the blonde girl show so plainly. "I'm trying to figure out what type of creature had black eyes, but looks human."

"Like a Furfur?" Luna wondered wistfully. " Is this about Professor Sam? He did have some sulfur on his jacket."

At this, Hermione's ears perked up. "Slow down, Luna. A what?"

"A Furfur," she repeated. Luna leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "But they're very very bad creatures you know. You're not planning on summoning one, are you?"

"Summoning? No, no," Hermione responded quickly. "Could you tell me more about them, Luna?"

The blonde nodded and explained. "They're extremely dark, and leave behind sulfur residue wherever they go. Like I said before, I saw some of that on Professor Sam's jacket during the first day of lessons. He told me to take off my Spectrespecs after I pointed it out though. The only thing is that Furfur's don't generally live on Earth so to speak."

Hermione's hope shattered at that—had she _really_ let herself fall into a serious conversation with Luna Lovegood about aliens? She rolled her eyes and began packing everything that she had taken out away. "That's enlightening, Luna, it really is, but I need to be off to supper right now."

Luna shrugged. "Okay."

* * *

><p><em>(The Fifteenth of September) With Dean…<em>

Dean sat in the staff room on one of the softer couches before the fire. He should have been writing Bobby back—he had the self-inking quill and parchment needed in his hands—but was instead staring into the flames, which were gently licking at the chimney bricks, discreetly scorching them black as coal. Zimmerman was perched on the arm of the couch, cleaning his feathers absentmindedly, although occasionally glancing up at Dean as if expecting him to do something. Some of the teachers chatted casually amongst themselves, but he wasn't paying them any mind. He really should have written to Bobby by now.

Septimas strolled into the staff room, wearing a fancy blue robe and looking like he'd just won a 'Teacher-of-the-Year' award. "What do you think?"

Dean's focus snapped from the fire to the teacher, and he resisted the snort that he really wanted to react with. Instead he gave the guy a thumbs up and asked, "Another date with Aurora?"

"Mmmm, hmmm," he said, nodding. He looked down at the paper in Dean's hand and asked, "Writing a letter?"

"Trying to," Dean said looking hopelessly at the blank sheet and wishing it would fill with just the right words.

"To whom? —If you don't mind my asking."

"No, it's okay," said Dean, putting the paper to the side and gently stroking Zimmerman's soft feathers with his index finger. "To my uncle, Bobby…well, he's not my blood uncle, but he might as well be."

"You haven't written to him recently?"

"Not for a while. I'm not really sure what I wanna tell him, you know? He made it clear he doesn't want me sending him some 'I-got-a-job-but-I-can't-tell-you-what-it-is' bullshit. We've kinda got a lot going on back in the States, and he's gonna be pissed that we're not there."

"You've faced a boggart and an angry witch over the past two weeks, and you're afraid to write your almost-uncle a letter?"

Sam entered the common room holding an ancient-looking, thick book under one arm. He saw Septimas all fluffed up, and asked, "Another date?"

"What gave it away?"

Sam smirked. "The shoes."

"Hey, Sam, where you been?" Dean asked, taking his mind off what Septimas had said to him.

"The library," Sam said, shifting up the book a little. "Did you know that Strigas are just an older version of Dementors?"

"What's a Dementor?"

Sam sighed. "I'll explain it to you some other time."

Dean shrugged and asked, "Hey, is there anything you wanna tell Bobby?"

"You still haven't written him?"

"Well don't say it like _that_," Dean said defensively. "Neither have you."

Sam pondered something to tell his almost-uncle, eventually deciding on, "You can tell him that you got beat up by a short lady in a pink cardigan. That'll amuse him, right?"

"Shuddup," Dean growled. "Better yet, I can tell him about how you and your outer dork have finally embraced the whole glasses-look and that you've been getting your nerd on in the library."

"I liked my suggestion better."

"Yeah, but I have the quill."

"…Jerk."

"Bitch."

Septimas laughed at the grinning brothers before saying that he had to go meet his date up in the Astronomy Tower. As he left the common room, Sam sunk his weight into the couch next to Dean. "Seriously, what are you gonna tell him?"

Dean looked at his hawk and said, "I think I'm just gonna tell him the truth; all of it—the witches, the wizards, the owls, you know. What's the worst he can do? Write an angrily worded letter?"

"True. Good luck with that."

"Good luck? Gee, that's helpful, Sammy," Dean said with a smirk. His face melted to a more solemn expression, sharpening his features but at the same time allowing a more open and exposed light into his eyes. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Dean bit his tongue for a second, unsure if he really wanted to bring this up but forced his mouth to ask, "What did she mean?"

Sam smirked, amusement dancing in the dimmed eyes behind his glasses, "You're gonna have to give me more than that to guess on, Dean."

"The other day, the boggart, she said you were doing something."

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat; the plush couch sinking under his newly distributed weight. He knew his brother was on his scent and wouldn't stop sniffing for answers until he dug up a skeleton. Dean was a Hunter—and while that may have helped countless other people, it wasn't working the odds in Sam's favor. But it wasn't unlike Sam to have a few tricks up his sleeve being a Hunter himself—now he just had to put them to use.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Dean asked.

"Honestly, "Sam started hesitantly, "I think she was talking about the whole…demon blood thing"—(he said it as if he was spitting bile off his tongue)—"that I _used_ to have."

"Used to?"

Sam nodded, waiting for Dean to silently conclude that Ruby had no way of entering the school—though Sam had made it his top priority to jump that hurdle. Dean seemed to have accepted it, looking down at the parchment sitting idly on the couch.

"Yeah, all right, Sam," Dean sighed, puffing the words from his mouth like smoke off the bud of a cigar. He dipped his head down, pulling the parchment and quill onto his lap, and beginning to ink his letter to Bobby.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So yeps. In case anyone was curious, this is up to 241 pages according to Microsoft, so whoo hooo!_

_Mignun, __Basia Orci, __BlackWolf2013, Suuki-Aldrea, sandcrawlr, Illucida: __ Thanks so much :)_

_vsama: The thing about Gabriel is that he's an angel and all of HP-World (yes, that's what I'm calling it) is angel/demon proof. So the twins prolly won't be sneaking him on campus_

_Who Are You What Do You Want: Umbridge running for her life always sounds like fun_

_Akira Muratake: I can't tell you when, but I can tell you that there will be Rock in the future_

_INMH: LOL. I can't even tell you how much I was cracking up when you called Cas Pinocchio! :D :D :D Thanks for the support too :)_

_hpgleek4evr: Thanks a lot :) I didn't even notice that _

_**Super Big Huge Thanks to everyone that Reviewed, Story-Alerted, Favorited, and Read.**_

_Well, that is all I've got. Orevwa_


	25. Running, Reflexes, and Research

_A/N: …Did it again, didn't I?_

_Whoops. Actually this is a bit of a funny time to be posting seeing as I've got about a million and a half of other things that I should be complaining about right now. Oh well. You know what they say: it's always best to waste time when you don't have any and all. Sorry for being slow and all. Yeah._

_Disclaimer: I don't even have enough time to own Supernatural or Harry Potter…yet… ;)_

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><p><em>(The Twenty-Second of September) With Cas…<em>

It was early in the day and Cas could see the outline of dark wings stroking milk white, horsetail clouds scattered against a dusty blue sky. Dean had finally written. It was time.

Zimmerman began his descent towards Pamela's house; stretching out his wings and allowing himself decline from the fresh skyline. Cas had to wait so not to frighten the bird away from him—and after all the waiting he had done, what was a few more seconds? The hawk gracefully circled the house once, content to have nothing other than the wind beneath his wings and the air guiding his path. He slowly descended, but the moment he reached the door, Cas appeared in front of it. He snatched the surprised creature and tied the rope he had prepared to its leg—all the while it squawked, batted its wings, and pecked him in desperate protest.

"Hold still," Castiel muttered frustrated-like, walking the struggling bird over to the mailbox and tying it down.

Cas vanished once more to his hiding place next to a nearby tree, standing patiently like nothing had happened. Bobby came to the door, alert as he noticed the source of the racket. The aging Hunter put his hand on something—most likely a gun—in the back of his pants as he made his way towards Dean's animal. Cas could basically _hear_ Bobby wondering what had tied the hawk down—though he wasn't doing any mind probing just then. Once the Hunter was more than halfway towards the mailbox, Cas vanished into the house, closing and locking he front door behind him—though permitting the shocked Bobby to see his face.

"Who's there?" Pamela demanded with a hint of fright in her steady voice upon entering the living room. She could sense that the presence wasn't that of Bobby's; this one was much more powerful—as in 'I-can-destroy-you-with-a-glace' powerful. "What are you?"

Cas hesitated, watching the blind woman pull a silver knife into her hands from her jacket. She thought he was a monster. Maybe he was.

He vanished, reappearing inches behind the psychic and knocking the weapon from her grip. She tried to turn around to face her attacker, but Cas had already clamped one hand over her mouth and held her head stiffly in place. He tapped his free right hand against her forehead with some force, and released enough energy from his palm to make her pass out. He then wrapped his arms around her thin waist, and grunted as his arms were tugged down by her dead weight—well, it wasn't dead yet. As the door was broken open by the Hunter's boot, Cas vanished once again, but this time with a psychic in tow.

"_Balls!_"

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Third of September) Second Period with the Winchesters...<em>

Dean was in quite a good mood—despite the fact that it was a Monday. Basic training for the students was nearly finished, and soon they would get down to the _real_ teaching, which included monsters and creatures, weapons and fighting, occult objects and protection, and all sorts of fun stuff. Dean was practically giddy; three weeks of just supervising kids running in circles got pretty boring after a while, and lessons were just inches from his fingertips. Of course, that didn't mean the laps were going to stop for good, but it wouldn't be the top priority of the classes anymore. He, Sam, and the kids just had to barrel through one more week.

As the fifth years finished up their usual ten laps, —with zero complains or hesitations—Dean called them in to the middle of the Pitch. Four lines stood so straight in queue that if one were to stand in front of any of the four, it would look as if there was only one sweaty kid standing there. Dean smirked—they were really learning.

"Congrats!" Dean said cheerily, his voice bellowing through each student's ears. "You've almost made it through basic training. You know what this means?"

No one dared to speak out of term, regardless of how curiously jubilant Professor Dean seemed.

"Aww, c'mon, re-_lax_," Dean said, stressing the pronunciation and breaking the last word into two parts. He gestured for them all to sit down—which the students obliged to hesitantly seeing as they were not used to being indulged in a lack of work during this class. "Today's gonna be one of the the easiest lessons you have with us all year."

The fifth years all mentally sighed their relief at that—through knew better than to vocalize their bliss just in case.

"For the rest of this year you will be learning how to fight, to protect yourselves, to use weapons _aside_ from wands, to track and kill a target, the different types of occult objects, various creatures, —both Muggle and wizard—their weaknesses, and most importantly, how to survive," Sam announced sternly, but still an octave more lax than usual. "This little exercise we have going on is simply to prepare you, to get you in shape for what is to come. Running and reflexes are the grounds that you will be building on. Believe me, there will come a time where you will _wish_ that all you had to do was run in circles for forty-five minutes."

He opened his mouth to continue, but stopped when he heard muttered words coming from the Slytherin line. Apparently Dean had too, and made a slow and deliberate beeline towards the voice—which seemed to have belonged to Draco Malfoy if Dean's ears were correct.

"Care to share with the class, Malfoy?" Dean asked, deciding he had no need to bellow the order at the kid seeing as he was already intimidating enough simply because he stood so many feet above the Malfoy-boy.

Draco looked up, silently debating whether or not the professor would ever actually beat a student. Deciding to take his chances, the Slytherin tapped into a well of arrogance, saying, "I_ said_ that I did not sign up to take a Muggle Studies class…sir."

Dean would have smirked if he didn't think the kid was an idiot. He licked his lips like a wild dog about to eat a squirrel, and then narrowed his eyes down onto Malfoy's, obviously trying to will a hole through the kid's greasy blonde hair and thick skull.

"I may be a Muggle and you may be a wizard, but monsters and demons hate us all the same and wouldn't hesitate in murdering you and your entire family for their own amusement," the Hunter growled. He directed the rest of his speech towards the rest of the class so that they understood that what he was saying wasn't friendly chat, but substantial knowledge, "That's what we're here to train you against. The Dark Arts is more than just hexes and spells and that Voldemort-fellow; it's more than the things your worst nightmares dare to even let you peek at. Phantom Hitchhikers: real. Rugarous: real. Skinwalkers: real. Wendigos: real. Zombies: real. Reapers, Hellhounds, Arachne, Djinns, Crocottas, Tricksters, Wraiths, Changelings, Tulpas, Kitsunes, Sirens, Demons, Angels, evil clowns that eat people: _all_ real. And you probably don't even know what more than half of those are, let alone how to kill them _before_ they kill you."

"You forgot Pagan gods, Strigas, and Shapeshifters," Sam added as a vocalized side note. "How'd you forget 'shifters?"

Dean rolled his eyes quickly but continued, "Point is that these things exist, and you need to know how to fight them for your continued survival."

Sam took over from there, "You all have notebooks, correct?"

"Yes, sir!" the fifth years chanted back at him.

"Good," Sam said, sliding his glasses up his nose with his pinky. "Over the course of this year, you will fill it up with notes on each of the things we cover during classes. How you take your notes will be up to you—the only things we will ever write down are diagrams or pictures of things you need to know. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Mondays you will learn about monsters and creatures; Tuesdays you learn about occult objects and protection; and Wednesdays you will learn about weapons and fighting."

A hand shot up like a bullet leaving a pistol from the Gryffindor line. "Yes, Granger?"

"Will we be, er, using Muggle weapons, sir?"

"Yes."

"…Like guns?"

"Trigger happy, eh?" Dean commented, with a smirk. "Guns will be later in the year after you all learn how to aim and not kill each other. Anything else?"

The Gryffindor girl nodded and pointed to several objects that lay behind Dean—one being a metal box, the next a remembrall, then camcorder, and lastly a weird black metal thing with some lights on the top (known to the Winchesters as an EMF detector, though none of the students recognized it). Several pupils swayed to the sides to try to see around the student in front of them and grab a glance at the weird devices. "What are those for?"

"What? Those?" Dean asked, as he shot a finger in the objects direction. Hermione nodded again. Dean shrugged and said, "Nothing important."

"Back to the lessons. Thursdays will be practice days, during which you can review everything you've learnt over the course of the week. Practice days will also be the only time you will be permitted to practice using weapons. In case I am unclear, this means you are _not_ to touch any of the Defense weapons at any other time—like after school for example. If you really need help using a weapon, talk to either of us and we'll schedule further instruction during any free time we have," Sam explained, somehow keeping his voice very casual and steady. "As for Fridays, those will be testing days. You will be tested on your knowledge, and use of the things you've learnt in class over the week. Speaking of which, you will be having your first test _this_ Friday."

There were several audible moans and groans at that.

"Hey, think about everything you've learnt over the last three weeks: running and reflexes, remember?" Dean commented. "That's your test. Running and reflexes. Got it?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Now back to dodge ball."

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Third of September) With Harry and Co.<em>

Harry hadn't had too much time to talk over the events of the Defense class over with Ron or Hermione yet—instead finding himself buried under a pile of books as he wrote his potions essay, faked his dream journal yet again, practiced making legs grow on lamps for Charms, and tried to turn a watch into a mockingbird yet only managing to make a beak sprout from its middle for Transfiguration. He should have at least gotten the Divinations homework done the night before but he had been quite weary after a day's worth of Quidditch practice and had decided to go to bed early.

Ron wasn't exactly fairing very well himself—he, unlike Harry, hadn't finished the latest History of Magic essay, and was obviously having a right struggle trying to start it off. Once he was finished with it, he would be rewarded with yet another unfinished essay—this one for Potions—to do, and a week worth of dream journal entries.

Hermione entered the common room with a load of books weighing her down and said, "Could I get a little help?"

Harry and Ron glanced up, Ron taking initiative—or just using Hermione as a distraction to peel away from his essay—and scooping some of the books from her. "_Merlin's beard_, Hermione, did you check out the entire library?"

"No," Hermione said dryly. "Some of them are for homework, most are research, and there's a few for light reading."

"_Light_?" Ron asked, his eye practically popping out of his skull as he dropped them all onto the desk he and Harry were working on. "Hermione, these are _dictionaries_!"

She dropped her load down next to the pile Ron had made and sighed, "You're exaggerating, Ron."

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are," Hermione puffed. "Now do you want to hear what I found out or not?"

Harry looked up from the scrappy third paragraph of his potions essay. "What'd you find out?"

"Well I found books relevant to some of the things Professor Dean mentioned, and I found some really interesting similarities," she said, flipping two of the books open to where she had dog-eared the pages. "Look here."—(She pointed at different paragraphs from both books with her left and right index fingers)—"This one says that Metamorphmagus are witches or wizards that are born with the ability to change into whoever they wish, whenever they wish through a painless process based off of concentration. And this one says that Shapeshifters are humans born with the ability to shed their skin and change into another person—though it is described as being quite uncomfortable. I'm guessing that there is a Muggle counterpart to every being or creature out there based on some other books I leafed through. I mean, Dementors and Strigas, Skinwalkers and Animagi, Wizard Werewolves and Muggle Werewolves, it goes on and on. Usually the Muggle counterpart is described as being more painful to become, which I presume is because of the lack of magic in their blood.

"I also tried to search Sam and Dean, but they're not coming up anywhere," Hermione added regret in her voice.

"Well they're Muggles. Why would wizards write about them?" Ron questioned.

"Ron, do you honestly think that the Winchesters are the only regular Muggles who know about magic?"

"Depends—do you honestly think that they're 'regular Muggles'?"

"Of course not," Hermione scoffed indignantly. "That's why I'm looking around to see if I can find any mention of Muggles who are involved with magical affairs."

"…And you've got nothing."

Hermione would have probably smacked Ron over the skull with A Sensible Guide to Ancient Werewolves if Harry hadn't intervened by getting up and impatiently telling them, "I'm going to rinse off."

"You've nothing to add, Harry?" Hermione asked, temporarily having her attention diverted from her ginger mate to her ruffle-haired friend.

Harry shook his head and scooped his books up, dumping them into his rucksack and lugging that up the stairs to his dorm. He was tired and really wasn't in the mood for dead-ends. Plus, a shower would probably help clear his head of the information overload he had floating around in there. All he could do was hope for Hermione to stumble upon something useful really soon.

"Harry?" Hermione called once more, once he reached the top of the stairs.

He paused and looked back down, with his eyebrows raised in curiosity though the rest of his body was hunched in exhaustion. "Yeah?"

"Er..." she stumbled hesitantly. "Never mind."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thanks to all the reviews from the last chapter. Near the breaking point for 200! Woot woot! I'll try to respond to any reviews for the next chapter asap._

_Bye bye_


	26. Street Fighting Man

_A/N: Yep. Back again._

_Disclaimer: Don't own nothin'._

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><p><em>(The Twenty-Third of September) With Cas…<em>

He had vanished to a nearby warehouse the day before, and was quietly waiting for Pamela to wake up and join him in the world of those who are conscious. He had underestimated the energy he had passed onto her, leaving her unconscious for what must have been at least twenty-four hours now. Ludicrously enough, Cas was worried about whether or not she was okay. There he was, a celestial soldier from Heaven with the orders to kill the insignificant psychic, and he was _worrying_ about whether or not he had hurt her. That had to be at least three different types of outrageous.

His body was hunched over where he sat on one of the sealed wooden crates labeled as "Fragile". He had decided to look through the wood at one point and had seen some Tickle-Me-Elmo's packed in rather tightly though—hardly "fragile" in his opinion. What he was dealing with, life or death, now _that_ was fragile.

He wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't just killed her already—he had waited long enough and his mental debate of morals should have already been finished; God's will versus free will, _his_ will was proving to be an argument bigger than he'd ever imagined—not that he ever imagined blasphemy before.

"So what?" Pamela groaned. Cas had been so devoted to his thoughts that he hadn't even realized that the psychic had awoken. "First my eyesight, then me? Was that the plan?"

"Pamela," Cas said stiffly, almost as if his words being held in someone else's iron grip, "I have orders. This is nothing personal."

"You're trying to murder me, right?" she asked, wavering a bit though still sounding pissed. "That's a little personal."

Castiel let his sword drop from the bowels of his trench coat's arm as he stood up and walked over to where she was trying to sit herself up on one of the crates. His sword was raised, she was helpless, and it was time—past time actually. "I'm sorry."

His face was stiffened as if doing so would stop the disobedient thoughts whispering along the edges of his mind. Cas looked into her eyes, the ones that she couldn't even see through because of him—that was his fault. He puckered his eyebrows, and, of all things, Dean Winchester came into his thoughts. Pamela had lost her eyesight trying to figure out who he was for Dean. This entire situation was merely to make Dean and his brother come back to America according to Uriel.

Dean, Dean, Dean. It always came back to Dean.

Unless...

Desperate speculations raced though the angel's mind, but he crossed into realization.

Unless his brother had lied to him, unless this was all a test. That would mean it wasn't really Dean after all—maybe it really all came back to Cas. Maybe he needed to prove something, to prove himself. But to whom? The more he speculated, the more realistic the theory became.

Who? That slipped from his list of importance. Uriel's test or God's test, he knew one thing for sure: if Dean were in Cas's position, he wouldn't be the mindless "hammer" he thought Cas was. He would be helping her escape. Whether that helped him pass or fail wouldn't be of importance to Dean—so why should it for Cas?

He lowered his weapon and grabbed her hand to help her get up. "Come on."

"Wait. You're not going to kill me?" Pamela asked, wondering whether the angel had a change of heart or was simply bipolar—and let's face it, she'd knew of things ten times weirder than an angel with a split-personality problem.

"No," he replied bluntly. "We have to move. Fast."

"Castiel," a deep voice said gravely behind the pair.

Cas peeked over his shoulder, eyes growing as he recognized the angel standing about ten feet away. He moved in front of Pamela, standing with his feet apart and spine curving him slightly forward as if about to lunge. "Uriel."

"I must admit brother," the celestial soldier started slowly, "I am…disappointed."

"Why?" Cas asked coolly. "Because I have chosen to _think_?"

"Because you have _chosen_ to disobey a direct order," Uriel stated, spitting the words. "I had more faith that you would do the right thing."

"And what is that? Murder?"

"To follow the will of Heaven."

Pamela sensed several more angels on the premises, surrounding and circling them like starved vultures. She turned so her back was to Cas and nudged said angel in warning that they were outnumbered. Looking around, Cas recognized the brothers that he fought with through the ages, but had now assembled to fight him. He clutched his sword tightly, his knuckles paling like the bone beneath as he did so. "I do not wish to fight you, brothers."

"This was a test of your loyalty, Castiel," Uriel stated dryly, letting his sword drop from sleeve to hand, "and you have failed."

Uriel vanished, reappearing inches behind Cas, but the angel warrior had anticipated the move—Uriel had used it once when Lucifer first rose; it hadn't worked that time either. Cas knocked Pamela out of the way swiftly so she didn't get stabbed, but not too roughly so to make her topple over.

His sword clanged against Uriel's and then the angel Micah's, who had joined the battle. Cas attempted to plunge his sword into Micah, but was deflected by another angel's sword swooping in just in time. Cas looked up and found himself face-to-face with Sammael, whose eyes burned with the fury of raging suns. Cas spun with the deflected blow and brought his sword around to stab Sammael, but was once again deflected—this time by Uriel. He vanished and reappeared next to Uriel, trying to take his superior out, but his blow was once again prevented from meeting its mark. He wasn't discouraged though, instead taking the moment as a chance to blow a punch into Micah and temporarily disable him.

Cas vanished to where the last of the angel crusade was currently closing in on Pamela—named Virgil, if Cas remembered correctly. Micah blasted himself at Cas, knocking the younger angel off his path to get the psychic to safety. Their swords clanged and clanked against each other as Cas was herded back away from Pamela. From the corner of his eye, Cas saw Uriel vanish so he disappeared himself, expecting that Uriel was about to appear behind him and deliver a final blow. Cas was too quick and experienced for that though.

Apparently what Uriel had expected of Cas was that he would go to Pamela, and the brother angels reappeared at the same time with only the psychic standing between them. Cas threw Pamela to the side like a neglected ragdoll so that she was away from both Uriel and Virgil. Uriel took advantage of Cas's temporary distraction and knocked his palm into the skin of Cas's forehead. Cas was blown back into crates nearby—all of which collapsed, some even breaking open as he hit them—and fell with a rough grunt to the floor. He quickly tried to vanish by suddenly realized what Uriel had done—he'd been cut off from all his abilities.

Pamela had attempted to fight off the two angels nearest to her, but was simply overpowered and held to the side by Micah and Virgil until further instruction. Sammael appeared behind Cas and locked his brother's arms behind his back as he knocked the sword from Cas's hands.

Uriel stalked his way over to his trapped brother, and looked down at him with the curiosity of a newborn child. "Why won't you join me, brother? Why rebel for a lost cause?"

Cas's eyes flickered up, and his eyes growled in defiance. "Because you are wrong. This is _not_ a lost cause. I have found it, and it is just."

"No matter," Uriel decided matter-of-factly. He slugged Cas mercilessly in the gut over and over again. Black dots throbbed to flashes of neon white in Cas's vision with each beat of his vessel's heart. Everything around him started to fade as his mind concentrated on anticipating the next blow like a more painful version of Chinese water torture. Each time Uriel's dark rock fist pounded into his stomach, Cas keeled over further towards the ground, until it came to a point where with every grunt also came a splat of red goo from his mouth. His knees gave way, but Sammael lugged him up. When the repetitive jams came to a stop, Cas pulled his head up and looked into Uriel's eyes.

"Goodbye, Castiel."

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Third of September) At the same time with Bobby…<em>

Though it took a little while to convince himself, Bobby decided that he was going to need some help. He had already looked through pretty much every book that was even in the slightest way relevant to his angel issues, and none of that was getting him anywhere. He figured that if any angel would help him it would be the flame-haired Anna. He quickly and silently prayed to her, hoping that she caught whiff of his plea soon. Thankfully she did.

"Where's Cas?" she asked immediately, not wasting time on casual 'hello's or human greetings as such.

"I dunno. He just vanished with Pamela yesterday," Bobby said gruffly.

"Man," Anna sighed. "I thought he was gonna…"

"Gonna what?"

She brought her disappointed gaze from the floor and to the old Hunter's eyes. "He's been given instruction to kill Pamela."

"So I gathered."

"But he was wavering the last time I spoke to him."

"Yeah? And when was that?"

"About a week or two ago," she said regret coating her words. "I thought he would come to see reason. Apparently he had other plans."

"Well can you tell me where he is?" Bobby demanded, friendly chat to hell. "I wanna kick his angel-ass myself."

Anna nodded and shut her eyes, searching for Cas's aurora. It took her a short time, less than a minute actually, surprising the female rebel. If anything, she expected Cas to have appeared somewhere at the other side of the world by now so that it would be harder for her to pick him out. Instead, he was nearby in a warehouse, and he was in trouble.

"He's near," Anna stated, snapping back into reality. "Call me crazy, but I think he wanted to be found. He's under attack."

"Is Pamela okay?"

Anna paused and searched for the psychic's aurora. "She's still alive."

"Okay then, let's get goin'," Bobby said, walking to the door and shrugging a jacket around his shoulders. He screwed his blue cap on his head as if doing so would make it more secured than it already was. "Are you gonna poof us there, or what?"

Anna frowned and sighed. "I've been cut off."

"Cut off?"

"Some of my powers are being suppressed by angels in higher ranks right now. We're going to need to take your car."

Bobby grumbled something about useless neutered angels before snatching his keys from the hook by the door. "Now lets go."

They hurried off to Bobby's truck, but it took several minutes for the ignition to start up—the damned crapper was always good at choosing the worst times to not start up. Thankfully it only took a few minutes and more than a few swears from Bobby to get it running and down the road.

"Make a left here," Anna said, with her eyes shut and eyebrows puckered in concentration.

Bobby turned the wheel, ignoring the red light and honks that he was thrown in return. Right now he had bigger problems to deal with than petty people and their petty traffic laws.

"Keep going straight."

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Third of September) A few minutes later…<em>

Bobby hauled ass and jolted the truck to a sudden halt on Anna's command. She gave him orders as they emptied themselves from the car, speaking steadily as they neared the warehouse's doors.

"…And if you see white light, you're gonna cut ass and get the hell out of here, understand?" Anna said steely, striding before the seasoned Hunter.

"Yeah," Bobby said, inspected the exits around just in case. The neared a dull light, and two doors with cold steel handles right at the front of the place. "We're not really gonna use the front door are we?"

"Maybe they won't expect it," Anna said with dull hope.

The female angel shoved the door slightly open and peeked in, surprised at the lack of guards—was this some sort of ambush or something? She silently motioned for Bobby to follow close behind; he might have been human, but it was always comforting to have someone covering your back.

A sudden rip tugged at her aurora and her insides, making her gasp and take a step back. She hugged an arm around her torso as if holding her guts from spilling out. Something was wrong—really wrong.

She ditched Bobby and ran in the direction that she'd been pulled in. By the time Bobby had reached where she had been standing, Anna was already engaged in battle. The rafters must have fallen because now they were half attached to the ceiling and half hand standing against the floor. Wire ends sparked neon blue, making zapping noises as they did so, but luckily not setting anything on fire. Smokes and fumes smoldered in the gloomy atmosphere around them all, a hint of light glaring onto some broken open crates.

"What did you do!" Anna yelled, her voice sounding throughout the scene and reverberating against the cold walls.

"God's will," Uriel shouted back, dodging his sister's sword as it attempted to lodge itself within him.

"Liar!"

She spun around in fluid grace like a ballerina with ninja training, slicing into the vessels of Micah and Virgil. The split skin glowed like fire poi masters were dancing within the folds of their necks only to vanish seconds later—both vessels dropping dead on the concrete.

Sammael dove into the battle, his sword leading his movement, but Anna swiveled out of harm's way, lodging her own sword into her brother's cranium. For a moment, the bloodied tip of the blade poked out of the ruffled mouse brown strands of hair, refusing to dislodge from the flashing skull. Anna yanked it out, cracking the head in half as she did so, and a spark blooming out of a wire behind her like fresh fireworks.

There was a piercing screech that ripped through the warehouse, snapping Anna from her battle. Behind her, Uriel stood, his sword deep into flesh. Blood gushed from the wound, and eventually from her throat—her scream becoming more of a choked gurgling noise bubbling from her drowning larynx.

"Pamela!" Bobby yelled rushing from the sidelines, and over to where Uriel stood before the psychic, who had now fallen on the grimy, ash-layered cement to her knees.

"This is over," Uriel declared evenly, "but believe me, there is still much to be done."

The angel vanished.

Anna watched absently as Bobby collected Pamela up into his arms, whispering nonsense words of comfort to her as if she was really going to be "okay." Her temporary petrified shock came to an abrupt end when she realized Bobby was shouting at her.

"Do something!" he yelled, looking up at her with clear and desperate eyes. "Fix her, damnit! Anna!"

Anna knelt down, one knee and a foot to the floor. She tapped her palm against Pamela's forehead, eyelids covering her hazel irises and face setting in concentration. She flinched.

"Well," Bobby demanded. His chest heaved violently for a moment, and his words sounded fragile, "C'mon, Anna."

Anna slowly peeled her eyes open, but were dropped low as she shook her head. "Bring her to the truck, and get her to the hos—"

There was a groan behind them, and both Hunter and angel swirled their heads towards it like owls. There, lying in a mess of Tickle-Me-Elmo's was the moving form of a trench-coated figure. "Cas?"

Anna rushed over to where her brother had been lying silently and unconsciously with a deeply bruised forehead. "Cas? Are you—"

"Cas?" he asked, in a new, almost-boyish voice. His blue eyes looked frightened and exhausted, but his voice carried on, "You mean Castiel? The angel?"

Anna's eyes widened, and her lips parted giving her a look that would have been more appropriate had she just seen a puppy hit by a sixteen wheeler. "What's your name?"

"Jimmy. Jimmy Novak."

* * *

><p><em>AN: So yes, I did decide to write a Cas-chappie and then to semi-kill-off-Cas. But no, I will not be handing out Spoilers. So don't ask. I hope that everyone who Reviewed received a PM from me. If not, feel free to yell at me. **Once again, thank you everyone that Reviewed, Story-Alerted, Favorited, ect. I always look forward to those e-mails telling me so.** :)_

_In other news, Doctor Who is filming in the City ("Which City," you ask. "New York City of course!") Well I hope to get in on some of that action later as I'm not too far from there anyways. :) I'm debating posting some other stories that I've been working on, but won't be quite sure until I write a few more chappies for this one. Oh, and I've been staying at my little cousin's house for this week, and the Internet's crap._

_Yeah, that's pretty much it. Hope you enjoyed you're Easters/Passovers. Bye-Bye._


	27. All For What?

_A/N: …um…so...yeah…awks..._

_Disclaimer: Me owns nada._

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><p><em>(The Twenty-Fourth of September) With Bobby and Anna…<em>

In a way, a Hunter's funeral is kind of ironic. On one hand, it was poetic in a way—a very "Circle of Life" kind of way though. After salting and burning so many ghosts that had been dead bent—no pun intended—on revenge, it was like this was the Hunter's turn to see how it felt. The general idea was quite intelligent—after all, what Hunter didn't have some rage for revenge etched into their bones? That was the kind of stuff that fueled a vengeful spirit; and what better new-and-improved version of a bloodthirsty Casper was there than one whom already knew the tricks of the ghost trade? A Hunter ghost would be like an immortal, indestructible robo-killer—and the last thing the world needed was one of those.

Neither Bobby nor Anna was thinking about that though. They were respectfully gathered out in the woods behind the Hunter's ramshackle house for the death ceremony—Jimmy had opted to wait inside the house, apparently feeling like he would have been an intruder to have attended the funeral of a lady he didn't actually know. Bobby's personal Bic was tossed onto the wrapped up remains, and the woman who had once roamed the Earth was now up in warm orange flames, burning.

The hunter and the angel hadn't shed any tears—both feeling too much defeat to bother with the faucets. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing—maybe it really _was_ just a way out of this world and into a better one. 'Course, Bobby was too attached to the psychic to believe that any longer than two shakes of a twitchy lamb's tail.

Fluffy puffs of grey smoke drifted off into the clear Heavens above, hopefully alongside Pamela's soul. Bobby wasn't sure when exactly Anna left his side, but didn't really care. He wasn't going to let Pamela go without at least seeing her off. She deserved at least that. Besides, she wasn't just a psychic. She was his friend. And he had to honor that by sticking with her.

_Until the very end,_ he decided, a lone tear dribbling from his eye, and down his set and worn face.

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Fourth of September) With Pamela and Jimmy…<em>

"I'm sorry about what happened," Jimmy said timidly as the angel entered the worn house through its front door. "…I don't really remember anything…but still..."

Anna looked the vessel over, and exhaled hopelessly. "You don't have to pretend—"

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are. And I know what you want," she said firmly, walking over to him with an expressionless face. For a moment, she just stared at him curiously, taking in the features she had come to match with Cas—the thin ocean blue eyes, the slightly scuffled black hair, the beige trench coat. But this wasn't Cas. This was Jimmy Novak. "You can't go to them."

Jimmy paused, his eyes disbelieving towards what his ears had taken in. He recuperated though, saying, "But they're my _family_. I haven't seen them for nearly a _year_. They've got to be worri—"

"Better worried than dead," Anna said bluntly. Jimmy inclined his head forwards, slightly tilting it, and giving him a confused-pigeon kind of look—one that Anna recognized having seen Cas do it so often. "Jimmy, I know you want to see your family, but that wouldn't be safe—for you or for them."

"C'mon," Jimmy tried to reason lightly, "who's gonna be after me? I don't _know_ anything!"

"Do you really want to take that risk, Jimmy? There _will_ be demons out there looking to see what makes you tick—"

"But I don't—"

"They don't _care_ if you remember anything or not. They _won't_ believe you, and _will_ torture you until you _die_—innocent or not," Anna explained heatedly. "The safest place for you right now is with us."

Jimmy rolled his eyes dramatically. "Am I even allowed to leave this house?"

"Yes," Anna said. "Were would you like to go?"

_To see my family, but apparently that's not allowed_, Jimmy thought bitterly. "To get something to eat."

"Fine, I'll go with you."

"No, no, it's fine. I can manage."

Anna frowned.

"You're my prison guard, aren't you?"

"That's a pessimistic way to put it," the angel commented. "But yes, I am."

Jimmy's eyes swam in wide circles once again. "Then let's go."

"Fine," Anna agreed shortly. "We're going to need to make a quick stop later though."

"To where?"

"To…Pamela's house," Anna said, not liking the distinct taste of the ex-human's name on her tongue. "We need to pick something up."

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Fourth of September) With Harry and co. …<em>

"You want me to what?"

It was well into the night, and once again Harry had found himself under yet another mound of essays and assignments. Hermione, ever vigilant, was long done with her own homework exercises, and had a right time writing bogus fantasies for both Harry and Ron's dream journals—creatively deciding that Harry's most recent mind movie had included pink frogs attempting to take over the world.

"All I'm saying," Hermione continued while simultaneously inking words onto the parchment, "is that it looks like we're not going to be getting any formal education in defensive magic. And let's face it, with You-Know-Who on the rise, defensive magic is the most essential piece of information and training that we will need to use one day. Who better to teach it than someone with personal experience, someone like you?"

"Hermione, it's only the fourth week and Harry and I are already backed up on homework," Ron yawned. "How do you expect us to do any _more _work?"

"Ron, there are things more important than homework," she said pointedly, "and this just so happens to be one of them."

Harry and Ron ogled at her; both of their jaws slack in a similar fashion.

"More important than homework?" Ron questioned humorously. "Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?"

"Don't be silly, Ron," Hermione scolded, flicking her eyes around in a quick circle. "Will you just think about it, Harry?"

Harry sighed, running his hand through his raven-black strands. "Hermione, I get what you're saying, I really do, but, c'mon. _Me_? A _teacher_? I'm not even the most qualified. I mean, you've beaten me in every test—"

"No, actually in our third year you beat me in Defense—and that was the only year we both sat the test and had a competent professor educating us," Hermione said simply. "But test results aside, look at all the things you've _achieved_."

"How d'you mean?"

"How do you mean? _Blimey_, Harry," Ron said exasperatedly though with a smirk tugging on his lips. "Well, let's see. First year you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who—"

"But that wasn't skill. That was lu—"

"—Second year you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle—"

"Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn't—"

"—Third year you fought off an army of dementors—"

"—That was just a fluke, and you know it—"

"And _last_ year," Ron said giddily with a full on grin gracing his face, "you fought You-Know-Who _again_—"

"_Listen_!" Harry practically shouted, a touch angry that both Hermione and Ron were smirking now. "Okay, just listen. That was all just luck, and flukes, and chance. I know, it probably sounds great when you line it all up like that, but I didn't plan any of that, I didn't know what I was doing half the time, and I nearly always had help."

Now both Hermione and Ron traded their amused looks with each other, spiking the temper levels within of Harry.

"WILL YOU STOP LAUGHING!" Harry finally shouted heatedly. "You don't know what it's like, being out there, not knowing when you or a friend is about to _die_. You can think I'm just some clever boy who knows everything all you want, but that's not true. I _did_ have help—_every time_ I had help. And I really didn't know what I was supposed to do, or how I was supposed to react to survive. I thought I was going to die; every time I was _sure_ that would be my last day. I was just-just blundering through it all, through all of it, hoping for the best but expecting the worst, _okay_?

"Neither of you - you've never had to fight him, or sit back and watch someone die _right in front of you_. It's not like anything they teach us in school. It's not just memorizing spells and tossing them at him like if you mess up, you can just try again tomorrow. Out there, if you mess, up, you die. It could have just as easily been me out there—just as easily as it was Diggory—"

"Harry, we're not having a go at Diggory," Ron said, his eyes sympathetic but stricken.

Harry looked down helplessly into whatever work he'd been inking previously as if it held any real answers—though at this point, he could barely read his own font.

"Harry…this-this is why we need you…If we're going to face…V-Voldemort, we're going to need to know what it's really like."

Harry sighed again, strangely calmed by the sound of Hermione saying Voldemort's name out in the open for the first time in her life. He took a few moments to himself to cool off his temper, and eventually had it reigned within his control. He frowned, feeling boiling regret for his outburst, but at the same time knowing that it had needed to be said, that those feelings needed to be freed from his burdened shoulders.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Fifth of September) With Anna and Jimmy…<em>

Anna had stopped Bobby's truck at a local diner and made sure that Jimmy had his fair fix of food before hauling him back to Pamela's house. The ride was long, and Jimmy's incessant, repetitive complaining was tedious in Anna's ears. She wasn't going to let him out of her sight though—not for one second.

It was in these moments that Anna wished she had her full powers on hand—had she been able to teleport, she wouldn't have needed to waste time making the long drive out of town; had she been able to heal, Pamela wouldn't be dead.

They arrived at the house, Anna relieved to see the hawk still tethered to the post of the mailbox. She had collected the bird, and gathered it up into the backseat of the car, instructing Jimmy to feed the poor thing some of his leftover fries.

They arrived back at the Singer house, only to find Bobby lugging himself like an old man up the stairs, which creaked uncomfortably under the weight of each step.

"Bobby," Anna said, pushing the door open.

He halted himself, and looked down. Anna walked over to the counter, Zimmerman riding on her shoulder, and flashed him the envelope that the hawk had been tasked to deliver.

"What's it say?" Bobby asked, slowly making his way back down the steps.

"I haven't opened it yet."

"Well what are you waiting for?"

Anna rolled her eyes childishly, slitting a nail into a crease and tearing the envelope open. She pulled it out and handed it to Bobby, "Here."

Bobby read it over, not bothering to share with the class. "Damnit," he murmured below his breath. He shoved it into his pocket while looking up at his ceiling as if asking God why he was making his life so difficult. He grabbed some paper and an envelope of his own so he could pen those boys back. His message was short and on its way in a matter of seconds.

"No offense, but you don't look so hot, Bobby," Anna commented.

"Well that's a real pick-me-up," Bobby said sluggishly. Anna didn't speak, waiting for Bobby to fill the gap of silence. Bobby sighed and reluctantly continued, "I didn't sleep too great, alright? This isn't exactly Top-Ten-Best-Days-of-My-Life material, you know."

"You should get some rest."

"What about this idjit?" Bobby asked, lazily swinging his hand towards Jimmy who looked both confused and offended.

"I'll watch him."

"Prison guard," Jimmy mumbled rolling his eyes, and feeling like one of those kids that overprotective parents put on leashes.

* * *

><p><em>AN: …So its been a while now, hasn't it? _

_Okay, reasons, let's see: Battle of the Bands practice (3rd place shniz-wits!), Nirvana show practice (Youtube: School of Rock Nirvana Elmhurst…I'm the one with the curly hair :), Regents exams coming up (its a NY thing), every type of final you can imagine (…def. failed my Spanish oral), homework, a water-bug infestation en me casa, and a really really overdue lab assignment. But that's just off the top of my head._

_I know, I know, this is a super-filler chapter, but it'll pick up, I promise. Good news is that the boys (you know which ones) will most definitely be in the next chapter. Bad news is that I probably won't be updating again until my Regents are over (June 20), so just hang in there._

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed, story-alerted, favorited, ect. If you reviewed and I didn't respond feel free to virtually smack me (via PM). Review if you wanna. Bye-bye. :)_


	28. Rising Up To The Challenge

_A/N: Shalom ya'll. Hey, I've been convinced to get a Tumblr and I don't really know what to do with it. If you wanna follow/stalk me, I've got the same username there (nicuvino dot tumblr dot com). Check it out :) _

_Disclaimer: Must I keep on repeating myself?_

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Seventh of September) With the Winchesters during Seventh Period…<em>

Despite the drippy-faucet rain leaking from the great grey clouds blanketing the Earth, both Winchesters were having a pretty good day. Their sixth period class wouldn't have agreed with that though—nor their fifth, fourth, third, second, or first for that matter. Based on that, both Sam and Dean were willing to bet a pretty penny that the seventh period fifth years would leave this period an utter mess. Oh well. It wasn't like they hadn't been warned after all.

The fifth years rushed through the slosh of sodden grass, backpacks slung desperately over their heads until they reached the dry cover of the locker rooms. Sam joined Dean in a shared smirk—if the kids _actually_ thought they were going to get away with a Winchester-approved lesson on a rainy day without getting absolutely soaked, then they were kidding themselves.

Sam ran a hand through his sopping brown strands, pushing them out of his eyes as he did so, and proceeded in wiping drizzly droplets of chilly water residue from his forehead. His glasses were speckled with little clear crystals, —which, now that he noticed, he would have to wipe soon before they accumulated—and beginning to grow a hazy mist on the bottom corners like some sort of almost-see-through mold. Dean was also inflicted with the hassles of the damp day; he'd managed to trip in the mud during a particularly impressive test taken by several groups teaming up together last period leaving him with mucky dirt padding his knees like suede elbows on a rich person's jacket. It didn't matter all too much though—he hadn't cared for the jeans too much in the first place.

The fifth years hurried out to their usual lines, foreboding anxiety and worry evident in their expressions. Well that was within their rights—little did they know the actual extent of what the Winchesters had in store for them.

"As you all know, you have your first Defense test of the year today. You are to follow us in line," Sam instructed sternly, in a voice that sounded eerily like his father's. "There are several string-barriers set up in the forest. Do not cross them."

"The forest?" Hermione said as though it were a question. "We're going into the Forbidden Forest?"  
>"Unless you know of any other forests on campus," Dean said coolly. "Talk out of term again, Granger, and you leave this class with an 'F'. Understand?"<p>

Her eyes nearly popped from her skull at the thought, as she unconsciously opened her mouth as if to say 'yes'. She quickly shut it considering the command. Instead she decided on a safe, little, curt nod.

"Stay in your four rows, and follow closely," Sam advised.

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Seventh of September) In the Gryffindor line with Harry…<em>

The students did just that, none uttering a single syllable for fear of missing an essential instruction that Professor Sam had continued handing out. He had kept on, speaking of the thread-barriers being enchanted to keep out any unwelcome forest dwellers. If any students were to find themselves in an unfortunate predicament that they couldn't escape without assistance, they were to send up wands sparks. Aside from that, no wands were to be used.

They were well into the forest where the rain droplets had to go through several layers of leaves in order to drip and soak them slowly. They each took a turn ducking under the last branch before entering a small muddy clearing, marked with mud-slosh footprints from previous classes, and that only _just_ had enough room for all of them. There was a plain duffle bag, its bottom coated with muck, and a line of red rubber balls, which they were used to seeing on the Pitch when the lessons came around to the dodge ball portion.

"…If one touches you, you and your partner will be immediately transported to the Pitch. As you can guess, your main purpose is to get to the Pitch _without _being hit," Professor Sam continued steadily. He pulled a yellowing piece of parchment from the pocket of his wet, grey jumpsuit, and began reading off names in pairs—never reading the names of two people of the same House together. "Vincent Crabbe and Anthony Goldstein…Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson."

"_Merlin's beard no_," Hermione whispered agitatedly. Even further behind her, Ron shushed her, though it was barely heard above the rain's constant _patter_-ing.

"I'm not working with a filthy Mudblood like _her_," Pansy announced, a disgusted smear of acrimony pasted in her tone.

Professor Dean quirked a brow, and traded a glance with his co-professor. Professor Sam's shoulders rose and fell in a way that, if one weren't looking carefully, one wouldn't have seen. The shorter professor frowned.

"That doesn't sound very nice," he commented unsurely. "Twenty points from Slytherin."

"_Twenty_," Pansy gasped in a whiney-pitched voice.

"That's not fair!" Malfoy complained.

"Life's not fair," Professor Dean said casually. "Didn't we go over that on the first day?"

"Yeah, we did," commented Professor Sam dryly. "What is that? A—what'd you call it?"

An uncomfortable silence lodged in the confined muddy clearing, marking the entrance of a forbidden topic. The professors once again shared a glance with each other, eyes only meeting for a tick.

"Okay, Parkinson, explain," said Professor Dean, holding his chin up, but his gaze down as he looked over at her. Pansy stood there stubbornly for a few moments, crossing her arms over her chest in a defiant manner and contorting her face into a sneer that couldn't be considered natural in a civilized society. Once again, the professors exchanged looks, ending in a satisfied grin sprouting on the shorter one's face as he turned his head back to Pansy. "You don't know what that means either, do you?"

"I-I do to! It's…it's a, er," Pansy stammered at a loss of words while simultaneously screwing her face up again, but this time in an unduly manner which consisted of anger and embarrassment—but mostly the latter.

"I want a show of hands of the kids who actually know what that means. And don't lie 'cause I'll be able to tell," Professor Dean shouted, echoing loudly through the students ears and the wet leaves surrounding them. A few over half of the nervous hands were raised—including Harry's, Hermione's, and Ron's. Professor Dean picked a kid from the Ravenclaw line, asking her to explain.

"Well," she started hesitantly, "it's a rather foul way of saying a witch or wizard born from a Muggle family as opposed to a Pureblood, or at least a Half-Blood one."

Professor Dean stared at them dumbfounded. "You guys are racist? _Really_?"

Professor Sam nudged him while simultaneously giving him a familiar disapproving glare—one that Harry had noticed he gave his co-professor quite often in the halls or at meals.

The shorter man gave an exaggerated sigh. "Five more points from the snakes."

"_Why_?" several of the Slytherins moaned.

"Ignorance."

There were several more moans and groans about that, but the professor handled it by a long blow of his whistle that instantly shut every one back up. Professor Sam continued on reading the list, eventually pairing Ron with Goyle, —much to their wisely-non-vocalized-protests—and finally—

"…Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter."

Of course.

Harry didn't know how they did it, but by some unknown Muggle magic those two had to be tapping into, the Winchesters had managed to pair each student up with the student whom they hated most. Or they were just evil. Maybe both.

"Now get with your partner, and stand in line," Professor Sam said in that authoritative tone Harry had become accustomed to hearing during Defense lessons. As the students reluctantly scrambled to meet the order, the professors gathered clinking objects from the duffle—though since their backs were turned from him, Harry couldn't get a good look.

"Each pair will receive one of these," Professor Sam declared, dangling a pair of handcuffs from his fingers. "They will be taken off at the end of the period."

Shiny cuffs were distributed, and individually double-checked by the Winchesters to make sure they were tightly fastened on the wrists of both persons per group. When that was finished, the professors shared one of their famous looks with each other. There was a slight nod of heads.

"Two minute head start!" Professor Dean hollered, scaring off several wild crows nearby. "GO!"

Harry and Malfoy took off through the saturated mud, not needing to be told twice, yet refusing to make eye contact with one another. It was as if they had some sort of silent agreement that this was only temporary, and something to simply barrel through. Though compared to some other groups—namely Ron and Goyle's, both of which had attempted to take off in opposite directions only to be snapped back together in a heap on the floor—they had started off rather well.

They dodged through thickets of bushes and trees, feet making suction-like noises as they were reluctantly pulled from the increasing mud-land down below. They didn't stop though until they hit a thick area where the branches scratched their faces and they couldn't see past their own noses. Harry and Malfoy grunted in unison as their cuffs became tangled in a dewy tree branch snag, and threatened to pull their linked arms from their respective sockets if they continued to move. The two boys passed sour looks to one another from between the scratchy branches before Harry sighed foreshadowing where the situation was going.

Both he and Malfoy attempted to take control of the situation with zero words shed by yanking their hands this way and that in order to try to free themselves from the tangle of branches. Two short but piercing shrieks—probably from girls caught by a rouge dodge ball—rang out nearby, causing both boys to panic in a mental wave of silent swears.

"Okay, enough," Harry said impetuously. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

"Really, Potter?" Malfoy sneered superciliously. "I hadn't noticed."

"Look, Mal-, er, Draco. There's no denying that we share a very special mutual hatred for each other, and as much as I don't want to mess that up, we need to work together here," explained Harry lamely. The black haired boy began yanking and twisting at the sodden branches, trying to tug their way to freedom. "Start pulling them out."

"Or," Draco said slowly, his free hand digging into the depths of his robes. The blonde haired boy pulled his wand out, and poked in through the branches, directing it at their cuffs.

"Draco, we're not allowed to use magic."

"Oh, _please_, Potter. Who are you? Granger? _Alohamora_," Draco whispered anyways, rolling his eyes as he did so. They were both shocked—quite literally and painfully in a bracelet of electric blue, lightening-like energy on their wrists. Other than that and a few frustrated swears from Draco, nothing happened.

"Back to my plan then," Harry decided, struggling as he tugged at the branches again. "C'mon, help me."

They were about a branch away from freedom, when Harry paused and asked, "Hear that?"

Draco too hesitated, and listened. Sure enough from the right came a small shuffle of leaves, barely loud enough to hear over the dribbling rain. Draco slowly turned his anticipatory and mildly frantic silvery-grey eyes to Harry's emerald one's. For a moment, they seemed to read each other's minds, to be in sync with each other, and they instantly grasped the last branch. Together they furiously pulled and yanked it every which way until it finally snapped with a great _crack_, leaving them just enough time for them to see a red rubber ball barreling at them from the left and snapping any unlucky twigs in its way.

Harry's eyes shot wide, but his jaw was set. On a worthy hunch, he held the branch like a short spear in his tight grip, and chucked it forward. Quidditch turned out to be of more use to him than Harry had ever realized; thanks to years of simple catch during average practices, Harry had decent aim and force, so the spear-like stick he'd just thrown pierced through the flying piece of rubber like an arrow through Jell-O. Its potential threat ceased as it burst.

There was another rustling, once again from the left, and both boys could've sworn that they'd seen the ghost of something brown, wet, and fuzzy duck behind some crinkly, green bushes.

"We have to move," Harry said in a rushed breath.

Draco nodded, and the pair began swatting bushes and twigs from their faces, being careful to keep their linked arms shoulder to shoulder in order to prevent another mishap like the last. Finally, they reached a less dense part of the forest where the trees were keeping their branches to themselves, though the trunks remained tall and plentiful.

"What do you suppose that was?" Draco asked, peeking over his shoulder to make sure no one was stalking close behind.

"I dunno," Harry said cautiously keeping his voice only an inch above his breath. "They said this area was blocked off from magical creatures."

"As if a couple of Muggles knew how to work proper magic," Draco sneered in near silence. "I doubt they even know a wand from a common stick."

"I pretty sure Dumbledore wouldn't have hired them if they weren't fully capable of offing us in a heartbeat," Harry whispered back, pausing as he took in what he'd said. "Well…you know, considering, er, some of the last ones."

"Very funny, Potter," Draco jeered in a dry tone.

Harry inhaled deeply only to release the oxygen within his lungs in a short huff-like breath seconds later. "It's Harry."

"What are you on about?" Draco asked indifferently, keeping his eyes aimed to the front though occasionally glancing behind his back for any signs of perilous stalkers or unwelcome beasts.

"My name," he said lowly, running a hand through his soggy, raven-colored hair. "It's Harry."

Draco gave him a queer look for only just a moment before mumbling something relating to Harry being "odd." Harry ignored it though, pausing once more to listen for any out of place sounds within the folds of the forest.

"Look," Draco whispered.

Harry followed the simple order, dropping his gaze down to where Draco's finger directed his eyes to go. At first, Harry was certain his temporary ally was going mad, but upon closer inspection he realized that Draco wasn't simply pointing at the numerous soggy leaves. A string—thicker than thread, but thinner than rope—was connecting two of the trees together like a tightrope that could never be crossed. Harry and Draco's eyes both moved in unison, tracking the string's still path. It was wound around each tree it had passed with a single loop—though the Winchesters seemed quite certain that the frayed material served as an impeccable and impenetrable barrier between the students and the forest dwellers.

"Perfect," Harry mumbled, his mind clicking in place the way Draco's had seconds before. "We just follow this back to the Pitch."

Draco nodded, and grunted a sort of sound of approval. There was another rustle like a bag of crisps being crinkled in someone's hand, automatically setting both Harry and Draco into high alert. They silently signaled each other to inch onwards in their trek with nothing but a half a second of eye contact. Harry stepped back, rustling some wet leaves in the process. Draco smacked Harry in the arm, rolling his eyes dramatically just moments before another red rubber ball plowing through the air straight at them.

"Run," Harry said quickly.

Draco didn't need any further persuading, turning in sync with Harry's whirl. They both knew that wouldn't help though, as there was nowhere they could escape to so long as they were not permitted to use magic against the enchanted rubber.

"Come on," Draco said, pulling Harry along on a hunch. "I have a plan."

It only took a few seconds for the pale-haired boy's plan to be revealed, and it wasn't all too comforting for either of them. They ran as fast as their legs allowed them as the ball neared on them over the coarse of seconds that seemed to take as long as History lessons. They both hopped over the string, the shimmer of a sparkling light wall glowing as they did so, but as the red plastic ball attempted to follow them, it immediately exploded, sending pieced of broken rubber to the ground.

"Well," Draco drawled, "that went well."

"Fortunate," Harry agreed, catching his breath for a moment.

They both turned and looked at the cloaked wall—or it had been cloaked when they'd been on the other side. Now that they stood along it's outer edge, they could clearly see the half-transparent, shimmering barrier separating the testing area from the rest of the forest. Harry raised his hand to the half-light, half-vapor, but his flesh wouldn't pass it.

"We're stuck," he noted, the corners of his lips turning down in frustration.

"Stuck?" Draco said incredulously. "These Muggles are going to get us killed!"

"Told you they could."

"Well…"

Harry exhaled deeply, as if that could wash away his slowly amplifying vexation. "Suppose we ought to keep going then."

Draco nodded, ignorant of Harry's inner frustrations. The pair took a moment to survey the woods beyond them, trees seemingly scraping the sky and leafy branches serving as a holey canopy far above their reach. The ankles of their pants were caked in mucky sludge in a way that added unnecessary weight to each step they would have to take. But they had to suck it up the same way they did whenever the Winchesters tasked them—whether it be running laps, playing dodge ball, or doing strenuous exercises without break.

"Hear that?" Draco asked suddenly.

Harry paused for a tick, straining his hearing to pick out what Draco was getting. It only took a few moments before a distant sucking noise reached him. Whatever it was, it was in the Forbidden Forest and coming their way.

"Someone's coming," Harry noted barely above a whisper. "Let's go. Now."

They took off, minding the barrier so not to get lost in the wooden maze, but the puckering sound stalked them, becoming bigger as it neared. Neither boy glanced over a shoulder to get a peek for fear of falling behind, and disturbing their fast pace. Besides, they needed their sight to before them so not to run into the brown trunks and sprouting roots in the path. Blood rushed through their veins as cold as ice while their hearts hit their chests, threatening to break free with each sloshing step thrown outwards.

Draco stumbled a bit, prompting Harry's panted, "Come on!"

"Wait, look," Draco whispered, pulling Harry to a halt.

The pair turned around, neither hearing a hint of the suction, but instead garbled voices amongst the rain. About a dozen or so feet back stood two beings, one a human and the other a centaur. Though the students couldn't see his face, the fact that his head was nearly level with the centaur's head made Professor Sam easy to recognize. His back was stiff, and both arms were outstretched in front of him, suggesting that he was aiming a weapon of some sort. Though no shot rang out, the chestnut creature neighed in discomfort, yelling something in a language Harry had never heard before.

"Let's get closer," Harry prompted, beginning to edge ahead. His arm was yanked back by a stubborn one that he'd momentarily forgotten was attached to him. He shot Draco a sharp look, only to be matched with an equally adamant one.

"Are you mad?" Draco spat. "We're not just going to _go_ there."

"How else will we figure anything out?"

"We'll get killed!"

"We can't just leave him. He's our Defense professor."

"Exactly!"

Another neigh rang out through the trees and attacking their ears before the puckering noise sped off and away. Draco yanked the handcuffs again, dragging the vexed Potter along with him. It was too late anyways, and Professor Sam was after them; each one of his steps matched two of Harry and Draco's.  
>"We've have to lose him," Harry said, flinging a low branch over their heads swiftly.<p>

"_What do you think we're doing now_?" Draco franticly replied.

"Get off the path."

"Do _what_?"

"We have to leave the path."

Harry didn't give him any further time to think anything through, snatching Draco from the comfort of the string-blocked barrier. He ducked under a scraggly branch, guessing that Draco hadn't seen it based on the little yelp that broke free behind him. Neither slowed though, punching through forest weeds like the devil was chasing them.

"I have a plan," Harry muttered to his partner. "Come on."

He wrenched his Gryffindor sweatshirt from his torso, suddenly glad to have thrown on Mrs. Weasley's homemade Christmas sweater from the previous year to keep warm. They ran further ahead, dipping beneath as many low branches as possible so to slow their professor down. Harry aimed them at the nearest bush, stopping for just a second to prop his sweatshirt on it. He tugged Draco along a little further away to the back of another bush.

"Down," he whispered forcefully.

Making sure that Draco was further to the outside, Harry dropped to the floor, the green-clad boy following his example. For a tick, all they could hear were the sounds of fat water droplets, pounding hearts, and rasping breaths. Then came the light crunches of feet over soggy leaves. Thinking quickly, Harry snatched a small stone and chucked it at the bush bearing his sweatshirt. The rustling paused, picking up a moment later in the direction Harry had hoped for. Draco shot an inquiring look at Harry, but the scarred boy merely gestured for silence.

Picking up a stick that had been poking into his side, Harry tossed it even further, once again attracting the Professor Sam's attention. This time, the professor took off in that direction, stealth replaced with speed. Harry glanced at Draco, the Slytherin translating the look to mean 'get up, now' as Harry had meant it to. They popped up from behind the shrub like two pieces of toast, taking off again towards the forest's end.

Professor Sam must have heard them as his footsteps started on after them once again, this time a bit further behind. But the two boys could see empty, green space indicating the edge of the Forbidden Forest. They could practically feel the free region where the only thing above was the six goalposts and the grey clouds. In a shared moment of adrenaline, the pair shot forwards with energy and vigor they hadn't known they still had within them. Mud shot up behind them from the bottoms of their soggy trainers with every outstretched foot throw. They could only see before them though.

They were so close! They could definitely make it there. Who would've ever thought that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could ever make it through an entire exam as partners? Victory was teasing their tongues.

Harry never felt impact because the rubber never hit him. He did however hear the deep _umph _from the back of Draco's throat as the wind was knocked straight from his lungs. He didn't completely comprehend what was happening as his feet left the ground, whirling into the sky. He could only be sure that Draco and something red was coming up with him. Well, until the feeling of freefalling met the pit of his stomach that is.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Cliffie. Hehe. Hope you enjoyed._

_Haven't really updated much recently, have I? Whoops. I've been getting out more so… (By "getting out more" I mean "taking the bus to Barnes&Nobles and being anti-social in the comic-book section…what? don't judge me:) Oh and I went to go fill my Potter-craving in the city with a bud, which was funsies. "How?" you ask. I'll tell you how: Potted-Potter. It was basically this play in the city (of NY) that rapped up all 7 HP books in 70 minutes. Good times._

_As always, review if ya wanna. **Thanks to everyone who Reviewed, Story-Alerted, Favorited, ect! You have just recieverd virtual hugs.** Bye-bye fo' now, bros. _

_(Wow, did I really just type that?)_

_:D_


	29. Changes

_A/N: Been a while, eh?_

_Disclaimer: Don't own it, don't own it, don't own it._

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><p><em>(The Twenty-Seventh of September) With Harry on the Pitch…<em>

They hit the ground hard, mud caking them from head to toe like a new layer of paint. Draco unsuccessfully attempted to roll over, hindered by the handcuffs between him and Harry. He swore at Harry to pull himself together, as the emerald-eyed boy pulled his muddy glasses from his nose.

"Up on three," Harry said.

"Three," Draco replied, dragging the scrawny kid up with him.

"_Harry_!" a feminine voice yelled.

Said Gryffindor turned to see a bush of brown fluffiness running over to him as he tried to clean his glasses with the bottom bit of his T-shirt. Still smudged, he plopped them back onto his face so to make out Hermione and Ron's approaching figures a little bit more clearly.

"Blimey you took your time, didn't you," Ron commented coolly, strictly keeping his eyes away from the nearby Slytherin.

"Did we?"

"Harry," Hermione started conspiratorially, glancing at Malfoy accidently, "you two were the last ones out. Here, let me clean those."—(She took out her wand, and aimed it at his face.)—"_Scourgify_. Anyway, we were _sure_ you were going to make it. And then you practically did!"

"Not quite though."

The four turned around to find their tallest professor making his way from the woods with a deep maroon piece of fabric in his clutches. He tossed it over to Harry, who caught it smoothly from the air.

"That's yours, yeah?"

Harry looked down at it, then back up at Professor Sam, nodding his head simply. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Professor Sam said lightly, pulling a silver key from his pocket. He offhandedly gestured for Harry and Draco's locked wrists, slipping the key into their 'cuffs, and releasing them.

The co-professors met with each other in the middle of the Pitch, calling for everyone to gather round and pay attention. Drippy students covered in various marks and smudged with mud shuffled on through the sopping field murmuring their disastrous tales of capture to one another.

"Since we were expecting pretty much all of you to fail this test," Professor Dean started casually, standing tall above the loose rows of students, "we decided to make an extra credit question."

"On Monday, there were four objects laid out in the Pitch. We said they weren't important, but that was a lie," Professor Sam continued, combing a hand back through his soaked hair. "For each one you can name, you and your partner will get a few extra points."

"Any idea?" Harry asked his mates as Draco wandered off to the Slytherins. Everyone was looking amongst themselves for clues or hints, but no one had anything definite so far.  
>"Give me a moment," Hermione murmured, eyes shifting about as if trying to physically find her train of thought.<p>

"Yes, Longbottom," Professor Sam called out, pointing at Neville's tentatively raised hand. Everyone hushed down, listening for the coy Gryffindor's answer.

"Was one a Remembrall?"

"Is that your final answer?"

Neville paused. "…Yeah, it is."

There was a brief silence followed by Professor Dean's vigorous, "Correct!"

"Of _course_," Hermione murmured. "I should have remembered that. I saw it, and thought about the one Neville used to have too. But what was right next to it?"

A few students raised their hands both confidently and sheepishly, but only a Ravenclaw who must have come from a Muggle family managed to fish a camcorder from his memories. Hermione's hand eventually reached for the sky, and upon being called on she discovered that, yes, there had been a box with some little light bulbs on top—though it was actually something called an "EMF detector", whatever that meant.

"Come on," Professor Dean prompted. "Any last guesses? Anyone?"

A familiar dirt-smudged, but pale hand made its way upward, and the professor picked it out from the large crowd. "Yes, Malfoy."

"It was a metal box," he said curtly.

Silence.

"It was, wasn't it?" the Slytherin asked a hint of nervousness apparent in his tone.

"That's correct," Professor Dean said coolly. "And that's the last of them. Class dismissed."

Harry didn't know how the professor did it, but as soon as those last words were uttered, the distant end-of-period bell rang from inside the castle. Drippy students rushed for the locker rooms to dry off, but both Harry and Draco were called over to the professors.

"Meet you there, mate," Ron said, sneaking a suspicious gaze over at Malfoy. "Tell me everything later."

Harry nodded before dragging his heavy feet through the slushy mud and over to his professors. At first no words were exchanged between the four, but that ended quickly with Professor Dean's curt, "Which one of you did it?"

The two boys exchanged curious looks with each other, neither quite sure what the professor was speaking of. Harry spoke up, inquiring, "How do you mean, sir?"

"Well, there's quite a few," he started, in a near-patronizing tone. "For starters, crossing the string after we specifically said _not_ to do that. Secondly, using some spell to try to get out of the 'cuffs. And lastly, after all that effort, not even managing to make it all the way out! I mean, come on. _Really_?"

The boys refused to speak up, both Seekers but neither a Snitch.

"No response?" Professor Dean asked. "We could just fail you both."

Professor Sam nodded along absently, his eyes drawn to something up above. Harry and Draco held their tongues.

"Fine then. We gave you a chance," the professor said curtly. "You're both receiving 'A's for this test."

The two boys gaped in shock. Confused, Harry said, "But, sir—"

"The point of this test was to get people that wouldn't ordinarily help each other to work together. You two put up a pretty good show of that since neither of you gave the other up even after the test was done. Good job."

"Uh, thank-you, sir," Harry said, unsure of his words.

Draco added, "Yeah, thanks."

"You can go now," said Professor Dean dismissively, eyes wandering up with his brother's.

"Goodbye," Harry said, leaving alongside Draco.

"So is this what being a Gryffindor's like?" Draco asked Harry halfway to the locker rooms.

"How do you mean?"

Draco gave him a look. "Breaking all the rules, then being rewarded for it."

Perhaps some things would never change.

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-Seventh of September) With Sam and Dean seconds later…<em>

Dean outstretched his arm, allowing landing space for Zimmerman as the bird approached. After more than enough laps around the men, its claws latched on. The bird's owner tried to pluck the envelope from its beak, but the hawk held on almost as if not wanting Dean to read what Bobby had to say.

Upon picking the note from his bird's grasp, paper was pulled from the envelope that sealed it in. In it were only three words.

"Oh my god," Sam breathed. Something—loss, failure maybe—landed in their guts, and refused to let the words settle.

Pamela is dead.

Dean took a few minutes to remember how to breathe, unconsciously crumpling the paper in his fist during in the blank time. The words resounded in his mind like lost echoes across a cave. Pamela couldn't be dead. She was Pamela for Christ's sake! Kick ass, eyes or no eyes Pamela! She couldn't be dead. She just couldn't. That just—no.

No.

"Leaving was a mistake wasn't it?"

Dean said nothing. Instead he chose to walk off as if the question had never been brought up. But they both knew it had. His silence spoke in multitudes.

"Dean?" Sam followed behind his brooding older brother, trotting to catch up and then falling into pace. "We can't just leave now, can we? We've already made a commitment to the school."

No response.

"Come on, we've got jobs, income, food, and this is probably the longest we've ever stood in one place together in our lives. We can't just _leave_ this."

Dean's jaw shifted, clamping his teeth together just a bit tighter. Of course they could just leave. Like Sam had said, this was the longest he'd ever settled down in one place in his entire life (no exaggeration there whatsoever). He'd grown up with no strings attached, letting the hunt act as his compass. Letting things go, just _leaving_ was what he did, what he'd grown up doing. Sam had always put his chips down into schools, education, and, really, whatever would benefit _him_ most in the end. For Dean however, it was the exact opposite; all bets were off when it came to family. And Pamela was family—okay maybe a little more intimate (Dean wished) than family, but the feeling still stood strong. He'd be damned before he let her go six feet under with a gasoline bath and a lighter, but without him, at the very least, just _there_.

"Dean!"

By then, they were already entering the school, moving portraits and burning torches replacing the murky greenery they'd just left behind. Dean must have sped up somewhere in the middle of the hill because he didn't remember the walk from the Pitch ever being so short. Anyway, who could blame him? —What with his tree-of-a-brother's misdirected concern being thrown at him from the outside, and his grief over his sort of uncle's words beating him up from the inside. And why couldn't Sam just shut the hell up and grieve a bit for himself anyway? He'd known Pamela too. He ought to be thinking about her right now. Show a bit of respect and all!

"—Wouldn't want you pining after her anyway."

"Well I guess we wouldn't really know that seeing as she's dead," Dean snapped hotly. Sam backed off for a moment glad Dean was responsive again. But that only lasted for a few seconds seeing as Dean could shut down at any second again and throw Sam back to square one. He opened his mouth, but Dean's was already filling in the blanks for him. "Look, just give me some time to think this through, alright? She's—she _was_ family."

Sam nodded, a hand finding a way to his brother's shoulder. He didn't want Dean to fall into one of those quiet rage ruts that their father was so frequent in back when they were all younger—those days filled with silence and Spaghetti-Os while their dad tacked up newspapers, police records, and random pages of some occult book or another to the latest motel's walls still dominated the majority of his childhood memories. He wasn't all too keen on letting them take over his adult ones as well. Besides, Dean was the closest person he had here with him, and Sam was quite comfortable keeping it that way. The last thing he wanted was to let his brother wander off into some quest for vengeance and get himself killed (again). Here they were both safe—no demons, no angels, no supernatural. Okay, there were wand totting mojo makers running about, but they were contained. All things considered, things were better, _safer_, off here than they'd ever been on the road.

"Okay."

Because in the end he had his brother's back—even if he wouldn't let Dean return that particular favor.

* * *

><p><em>(The Twenty-ninth of September) With Harry…<em>

_I'll do it._

He was sinking into that couch by the fireplace, staring into the flames when he should have been staring down at the "_hem_ _hem_, Ministry approved pronunciation practice sheet"—all theory of course because giving them actual spells to pronounce could, as Umbridge so "sweetly" explained, "escalate"—glaring at him from his lap. Maybe his subconscious—something that had been getting louder and louder by the day—was wishing for a certain someone to stare back and advise him in or out of Hermione's little scheme.

He already knew what Sirius would say though.

Harry repeated those three words over and over to himself like some sort of mantra to god knows who…wizard god perhaps? Did wizards (and witches) even _have _gods? He'd make sure to ask Hermione about that sometime if it was worth remembering.

Remus would be against it of course. So would Mrs. Weasley. They could get expelled! The last thing any of them needed was to go school hopping out of the country to some obscure wizarding institution far out of the Order's reach. Harry wouldn't last five minutes if the Ministry let that little tidbit slip into Voldemort's bony "re-born" fingers. Harry couldn't blame Remus or Mrs. Weasley for that particular concern though—as it was one that crossed his mind more than enough times in his Hogwarts career—, but it was like Hermione said, they needed to learn how to defend themselves. As he weighed it out, he realized he'd rather take an educated lot of expelled but organized Hogwartians to roam about London over an uneducated and enslaved one any day.

_I'll do it._

No matter the consequences if—no, _when_—they got caught. It wasn't like Umbridge could really punish them for—for what? Dueling? Hanging out? _Learning?_ It was just a club after all—nothing in the rules against those. So long as Charms Club, the Wizard Chess Club, and, hell, even the Quidditch teams were allowed to exist, why wouldn't a Defense Club, in disguise as a Dueling Club, be allowed to as well? Lockhart had a Dueling Club back in the day. He was sure McGonagall wouldn't protest supervising if need be. It didn't need to just be up to him like Hermione had implied. And it wasn't like he'd be teaching the entire school or anything; just a few friends. All they needed was to be clever about it.

"Harry?" So lost in his thoughts, Harry hadn't even noticed Hermione come down the stairs and join him in the common room. His head snapped back just to be sure she wasn't some master-of-stealth assassin mimicking Hermione's voice—because weirder things had happened. "They aren't even serving breakfast yet. What are you doing up?"

He took a breath in. He would love to say something artsy like that he just wanted to watch the sunrise or intelligent like that he just wanted to get ahead on his homework, but he thought that might come across as sarcastic. Plus everyone and their mum knew that she got enough cheek from Ron. "Just…up."

She sunk into the couch next to his, hair bouncing as she went down. "You had that dream again didn't you?"

The corridor flashed into his mind, but it was gone in an instant like departing lightning. Yes, he'd dreamed his way down that hallway again, but something about the way Hermione said it, the way she _expected_ it, infuriated him. It was one thing if the tabloids and the Ministry pegged him for a loon, but from his friends? They always said that they were there for him, but why wouldn't they just let him come to them for once? They probably thought him too stubborn for that. And maybe they were right. He wouldn't know though since they never gave him the chance to figure it out for himself.

He looked over at her, and the way she stared into the fire uncoiled the anger that had wrapped around his guts. "Yeah."

Her lips pinched together, holding back—Harry guessed—another suggestion to go inform Dumbledore of his latest night fright. Rather than wait for that damn to burst, Harry decided to switch topics.

"I'll do it," he said. Hermione looked up at him, obviously lost as to what he was talking about. "This meeting thing you want to do. I'll go."

"You will?"

Harry nodded.

"I mean, if you still want to think about it…" Hermione trailed off.

"There's only a week left until the trip into Hogsmeade. You'll probably need time to round up some people." Hermione's lips pinched up again. "What?"

"Don't get mad or anything," she started. That was all he needed to piece that particular puzzle together.

"You've already invited people haven't you?"

"Maybe."

Harry frowned. Maybe he was a bit too predictable.

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><p><em>AN: Yep. Sorry I didn't update too much. Traveling, and SAT prep homework got in the way, and then there was life so…Hope you enjoyed. :) I hope I answered all your reviews. Thanks again for those, and following, and favoriting, and all that good stuff. Review if ya' wanna. Bye-bye._


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